Near Sea

Traffic on the bridge
is heavy. Your foot
tiring on the clutch.

Pull into the marina;
that must be your boat, I
read the painted name.

Stand alone on the deck,
cool salt breeze, turn
slowly, about to call to you –

I am far from home,
the wind blows flesh
off my bones

I am vanishing
I am nowhere

[San Francisco, 6/26-28/93]