A coin in her pocket, like a lucky charm, an old
ghost that would hold her arm, a coin in her hand
that she holds tight, a link.

A supplementary chord, his voice, singing  in the cold
mineral quiet of a limestone quarry.

A link, she thinks, to manage an absence…
with the notes he sings, she knows that he won’t let
silence grow thicker and thicker.

Abandoned places are filled with water
noise and dust are washed away
the quarry turns into a stern lake
a landscape of solitude broken by the echo
whenever there is despair to be drowned.

A supplementary link, an amulet
of muted art deployed
on the edge of an encounter:
the foundation of  her bridge is
the swinging structure of her freedom.