Cartography of Rust

I On the pier, old buoys doze like barnacled moons, charts curled in my hands, smelling of tin and brine, and the tide redraws the coastline with its slow pencil.

II I trace the iron ribs of a shipwrecked weather vane, each arrow corroded into a compass of maybe, pointing toward a town that folded into fog.

III In the shed, a toolbox sleeps open as a throat, bolts of light falling through the slats, every screw a small city abandoned by time.

IV I map the quiet of rust across these rooms, orange lichen on steel, a soft astronomy, and listen to the future creak like a door.