Leaving New Hampshire
Cassandra de Alba

By Hampton, the boardwalk becomes
a necklace of lights for the sea,
the road an inkless ribbon
on which my car leaves no tracks.
Ahead, clusters of pine
stab at the blackening sky.
A water tower rises
like a ghost from the night.
I wish on airplane lights, knowing
they are not stars, but metal shells
full of so many things: light
and quiet and noise and bodies
and bad coffee and that lying whisper
that once on the ground again,
things will be different.

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