I am on this boat without you, now,
though as we enter the slip and crash against
pilings, your face, like a favorite telephone number
comes to my mind; it is like finding
June in November, or September in July.
Its neat digits are a little poem I experience
or simply memorize. How can that be?
There are no pages on this self-contained,
containing sea, only a conventional horizon,
shapes of buildings that pretend that they are home.