6. The Island

Walking through the photographs

that tourists were taking,

we crossed the bridge

to the ticking sound of my friend’s bike.

 

The bleak sun’s presence in the sky

was intrusive and brief—

nothing but a changeover cue.

My 16-millimeter memory

 

is worn and torn and spliced,

but the sound track with his voice

and with the music we loved

is still there.

 

Now that he’s gone, I sometimes dream

of this whole island drifting off into the sea,

independent of the city’s mainland

like it always has been.