gate mist

in the hour

before names

footstep /

echo /

gone

puddle edge

holds the sky

too still

.

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"Moreton Mirror"

I nodded to a stranger
by the ferry pier,
and the stranger nodded back,
his eyes holding the flat shimmer
of the bay at low tide.

When his brow folded
it was like the mangroves bending
to the southerly;
I felt my own lines deepen.
Every small movement I made,
he echoed -
until I greeted him
as though we’d hauled crab pots together.
The lie tasted of salt.

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"flight mode"

The higher they climbed, the quicker they blurred,  

Wrapped in code and status conferred.  

Juno sat still, mapped the ache,  

Her descent revealed what ascent forsake.  

A world within—a pulse, a thread—  

Flight not above, but through instead.

.

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"The Impossible Turn"

To hold what harms, to face without flinching, to shape warmth from wire.

To drop the name, to meet the eyes, to let edges soften.

To burn the mold, to kneel in ash, to rise listening.

Not conquest. Not perfection. Only forward motion.

.

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