So, at last, we will cross.
Our season presupposes continents, lands
of desire. We toss
like unloved baggage where we stand,

and slowly the land gives over.
Goodbye; goodbye.
The water
rises and hisses; distance simplifies

trees, houses. The small land speeds.
And we escape.

Here is your flying sea,
proportionless, your seascape

hung with birds, your frail launch
lightly bearing us in mist.
Everything's touch;
immediate. We had this

journeying at heart; yes, days
of it, weeks, buoyant, propelled.
The casual waves
blur like lines cast back. We have ourselves

out here; what else?
Birds fail. The sea shines
daily, is calm and -- who can tell? --
bottomless. There will be time.

And here I awakened into fear --
a destination, as your own;
an inlet, where
the waters shine

in welcome, where the journey
cries out: Here, where stones, enormous,
burrow in the sea.
The shoreline grows

specific, black and real.
Here is your consummate island;
mine. The sea is still.
The launch glides inland.

We stand in this full calm,
a journey's
end. Friend, be kind,
foreshadow me.