The fog fell with the evening
— the lightship lost —
and you arrived unexpected
in the pilot-house to see me.
You are wearing all white and you’re wet,
I’m plaiting your hair into ropes.
Down in the waters of Port Pegassu
It always rains this season.
The stoker is watching us
with both feet in the chains.
Never look at the antennas
in a storm; you’ll get dizzy.
The boatswain curses the weather
and Tokopilla is so far away.
Rather than fearing and waiting
better at the periscope and the torpedo.
Go! You deserve firm land.
You came to see me and yet see me you didn’t
I have, since midnight, drowned
a thousand miles beyond the Hebrides.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015