Longer shadows float beneath the gust at Half Moon Bay,
ripe for setting wings of sails to you.

I put away my compass, weak from longing, its endless
pull, as certain as the rise and fall of ocean.

Once our boat was anchored in a fiery cove,
its sails were full and ready.

Our boat is the color of ice. Its wind-driven squares
bound and knotted, choking close to the mast.

My soul cuts through the wind to you as I sit planted
somewhere in the sand until the seabirds sleep.

Damn the sails, the empty robes. How could we leave
these metal bones, alone and bare, drifting in the sky.

01 oct 2000