Over the September Sea
Two miles out
not quite
at right angles but
close enough
for chance’s
geometry
we intersect–
he is working the breeze
from my left
he too is crossing
this broad sound though
he is headed home
and I am
aiming out
at horizon’s island
at something
on the other side
of the slow rise and
fall of the sea’s
chest. My hands
press forward
one stroke two
a metronome
of cadence;
my boat knifes
wave after wave.
Well his wings
lack rhythm and
his flight’s the sort
that made the math-
ematician say
chaos he seems
to tumble
before
the wind’s hand but
even so
he vanishes southwest
toward Mexico
monarch
of this moment
its
only
king.