I lived along the edge of wet stairs,
watched stone lose out
to the incursion of lapping insistence,
a place where I gathered myself, a sensation
of cold and sometimes not so cold, even warm
as sun bullied its way through iron railings.
Which way? I heard myself ask,
no longer a barnacle stationed for eternity
at some breathing crack.
I grew up as the Gatekeeper,
the one who ferries shadows across the chasm,
back and forth I saw half people
dredge fear from a bucket of cold blood,
free-falling into an avalanche of some disaster,
waiting for a rescue party that never shows up
with help and a stretcher.
Never have I spoken until you entered my craft,
consumed by a hope that toys with us all
and makes fools famous.