Cartography of Rust

At the shipyard, the cranes are tall vowels opening their throats to the morning fog, while tar and salt argue softly in the air like two old languages braided together.

A man paints numbers on a hull, each digit a small door to a future tide; behind him the river rolls its gray coins toward the bay, spending itself on the pilings and gulls.

I walk the catwalks where ropes hold the sky, where rivets feel like constellations under my palm; the wind tastes of iron and distant rain, and every whistle calls a vanished shift.

By noon the sun is a bright weld on water, seaming the horizon shut; I fold the light into my pocket like a map, still warm, and go home with salt on my sleeves.