I see the prow of a boat
\ncoming to the dock,
\na silver fan to each side,
\nan unfolding like petals.
\nThe feathered edge of a planet
\nmoving across the sun.<\/p>\n
The arrival of worlds.
\nA slowing and turning.
\nWatching the arrival of a train.
\nThe cleaving of space
\nabout a runway.
\nThe opening of a door
\nto a friend or stranger.<\/p>\n
I remember arrivals and partings
\nso clearly.
\nAs if they were the larger part
\nof whatever happened.
\nThe first and last part
\nof a journey,
\nbook,
\nthe entrance to love,
\nits exhaustion.<\/p>\n
Returning to the boat,
\na boy smelling the world,
\nits water,
\nmusk,
\nseeing yellow oxalis
\npeeking from the crevices,
\nbetween the wooden timbers.<\/p>\n
All the arousal of being alive,
\nor having been.
\nWhere I was,
\nthe afterimage of my senses,
\nnever as huge as
\ncoming to a dock,
\nlaying on the prow,
\na part of a boat coming home.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I see the prow of a boat coming to the dock, a silver fan to each side, an unfolding like petals. The feathered edge of…<\/p>\n