The She, The Sea, The Leaving
She walks to harbor where land grants dampness.
The air thickens and is unordinary.
(It is not unusual to note water-full air)
As she walks to water and bit by bit falls to air.
This is how she finds her flotilla–
string of builded strands and slats on glass
where wind opens like a cupboard and lets slip the binded.
Does she know as she rounds, picks mud from her toes.
Shall we say she does not.
That there they sit in thin-carved berths
and pull quietly, pull tight.
From here the sail is nowhere found
but the vantage, but the voltage!
Comical line of palms point round.
There are three ways to cross this water–
When will it be said–she has lifted, she has lifted, she has left.
When ships satin and grow small.
When shore turns thick.
When curls the thicket.
Let it be said with ample gale
a-plow aplomb aside