Stretched skin against the abyssal black,
stitched by unseen hands,
tensions hum in silence,

holding stories of wind and weight.

The light grazes its surface,
a quilt of impermanence,
bound in fragility,
defiant against the void.

Portsmouth, New Hampshire

The radios sit, Bakelite husks,
Colors dulled by decades of light—
Red, green, blue, once vivid enough
To brighten rooms that are empty now.

Time hums inside them still,
The slow, indifferent tick of hands
Marking minutes that carried news,
Ballroom songs, the war’s end.

Music spilled out in tidy portions,
Tuned to the shape of ordinary lives.
Now, they gather dust on shelves,
Perfect and mute, outliving us all.

Waltham, Massachusetts

The slats—
angled ribs
against the night,

light drips through
like water slipping
between fingers.

Inside—
a chair, red,
a gesture of waiting.

Above it all,
the building listens,
holding its breath.

Brookline, Massachusetts