Half-asleep at the border
crossing, behind some Iranian
family at the duty-free,
the mountains behind
the distant city with still
-illuminated ski areas,
like shocking clouds,
the highway a slick
of electricity–
aren’t we both
always chasing
arrival?
.
Here by morning
the harbour is
the same dirty emerald
as the night before,
raindrops cling
to nascent buds
with no wind
to shake them free
or shift the fog.
A sailor rigs
his boat. The stillness
will push us away, push
us into the water–
first law, another
element, settling
only for what lies beyond
OPTIONAL POETRY 