On the map this island is serrated with ports.
Old histories catch and linger: shipwreck strews.
Mostly I see line-endings:
gas flame asterisks,
frozen water like commas.
I moved my bone tree to this zone of leaf dark
so the concrete could close over me unseen.
Every morning I study
the broken punctuation
rain spatters over sand.
Tim MacGabhann edits the literary magazine and press Mexico City Lit. His fiction, non-fiction and poetry has appeared in gorse, 3am and The Stinging Fly. // @TimMacGabhann