by Kenneth Godoy
The sun wakes, cold on the lips of the sea,
and wind smoothed a lane, glass-like where sun burned
flame on the channel, runnel glows orange, tugs
grunt in surf, fog rises beyond where three islands drift.
Wake then, we stood, thousands of us stretched out our hands
and feet, every molecule felt the pierce of wind, flickered and snapped,
peered on the city through pane after pane, glow orange when our
eyes become sea where the sun burns, silent and still.
What becomes of us, then, when we die?
Who dares us to live, dream short dreams when,
like wave after wave, we slip beneath tide into
silence and light.
Kenneth Godoy is a poet and photographer.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy