The poem
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.<meta charset="utf-8"> 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.