Fog collapses
            into dirt & 
concrete, 
            where iterations
of iron once
            lay. So much
history recedes
            into the urban 
blur, that we
            pattern land-
scape with
            plaques, when
naming only
            curbs the 
untamable.
            I do not need
to draw a straight
            line from myself
to you, but it exists, 
            beyond any ledger. 
Winter’s edge-
            lessness —  
eddies around
            me, spares the
world from 
            definition, without
losing meaning.
            I believe that 
every word  
            we spoke here
resides beneath
            us. Beyond winter’s
monosyllabism, 
            I feel the echoes
of our walks. 
            I can remember 
the season of 
            almost & what 
it is to survive
            seasons darker
than winter. 
            I know you saw 
death coming, 
            its gravity oceanic
how hard you
           fought to stay
longer. I have
            not found 
a path out of 
            these hard truths, 
but you are 
            everywhere
in a way I 
            cannot fasten
language to. 
            I do not need
the green 
            expanses: the 
ground is full 
            of passages, 
where the weft 
            of relic & recollect 
extend, like the
            static of our 
days. Let me 
            plunge into 
this bright beach,
            down into snow’s
soft anatomy 
            & the train’s 
phantom circuitry. 
            I will stay 
here with you
            on the salted 
path, the sheen 
            of ice glinting
through the
            vapour & ash
that knit this
            world together.
There must be 
            a hinge that 
widens, like   
            dialect, that
lengthens your
            silhouette beyond
its lack —
            these forgotten tracks.

—Cara Waterfall

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