On a cabinet in the ferry, a porcelain plate
painted in blue with a Korean St Christopher
type, almost as big as a mountain, crossing a bridge
to a house, the door of which he will not fit
— who lives in such a house, so tiny & remote?
A friend? Prey for a salesman? Something or other.
Out on the deck i learn to be a plastic bag
tied to a stick & take comfort in the bulks of rope
wound like the fertile scheming of a wasp.
The ferry passes through a corridor of islets
like tombs that people have left to the wild;
one with ample space enough on which, a lighthouse
was built, an unlikely spot for a guiding hand
— & out of nowhere, how odd is getting old?