Longer shadows float beneath the gust at Half Moon Bay,
ripe for setting wings of sails to you.
I put away my compass, weak from longing, its endless
pull, as certain as the rise and fall of ocean.
Once our boat was anchored in a fiery cove,
its sails were full and ready.
Our boat is the color of ice. Its wind-driven squares
bound and knotted, choking close to the mast.
My soul cuts through the wind to you, as I sit planted
somewhere in the sand until the seabirds sleep.
Damn the sails, the empty robes. How could we leave
these metal bones, alone and bare, drifting in the sky.