A cormorant drying its wings
steps down refreshed from its cross.
The sliver of moon is an ill-fitting
lid on the jar of our night
and the darkened lighthouse
has long been in league with the rocks.
A laughably happy small dog
fetching a stick no one has thrown
redoubles my prints in the sand,
kicks through and erases them.
I will not sail. Cover all
my traces as effortlessly
and I will stay for the last train,
the last boat to sail, and beyond.