All the poems, in one place.

The tide goes out like someone who has said enough. Salt gathers in the hinge of the gate. I open it and hear last summer scrape. Beyond the steps, a boat turns in its sleep. Some things return too small to keep.

Two cups, one chipped. A window that argues with the light.

You kept the porch light. I kept the road.

Rest now. The ships can find their own way home.

First, the hush. Then everything with its edges erased.

A word for every kind of waiting.

Everything the water forgot to take.