My mother would be a falconress, And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist, would fly to bring back from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize, where I dream in my little hood with many bells jangling when I'd turn my head. My mother would be a falconress, and she sends me as far
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Back and forth is a way to move
when the visible is spacious.
But what’s the state of the last boat,
lightly loaded and unprofitable?
Tied up at the mainland dock,
the ferry shudders in its berth,
its captain consults a tide chart
and grunts. A new, possessive moon.
Late departure, a rigid beam of light
probes the sea lane for what violates or drifts.
The other shore, not far off, can leap
and hurt the hand pointing at it.
In the dark alongside—wings seen, instantly gone,
a half-thought interrupted by a heave.
Then the ferry turns hard a-port to the channel,
the parting waters make the sound of a god
murmuring for both the first and last time.
At mid-crossing, something is lacking twice over—
in this location, in the mechanism or vision of the crossing?
Two ports, both accommodating, but unmoved
by what goes on between. How many departures
does a person need, how many starts can be tolerated?
A necessary collision at the pilings
tells everyone it’s over.