For months we’d been monitoring your news
as if you were a broadsheet,
and I’d trace
the outline of your every response
so I could recount it precisely. The light was always
on in the window, the mountains always
Then I went and missed your message.
For two nights I didn’t know
that you had tried to say hello
one time when you couldn’t sleep.
While I sat on a rattan chair,
a silk kaftan draped over its back.
Over here I see the ocean, still as a stone,
until a ferry emerges and slices the surface
like a cutter through dough, leaving
a line of stubborn white foam.
The light is always
on in the window, the mountains
always far away and the cicadas
creeping in the shadows
never stop shrieking.