Across the wide waters
    something comes
        floating—a slim
            and delicate

ship, filled
    with white flowers—
        and it moves
            on its miraculous muscles

as though time didn’t exist,
    as though bringing such gifts
        to the dry shore
            was a happiness

almost beyond bearing.
    And now it turns its dark eyes,
        it rearranges
            the clouds of its wings,

it trails
    an elaborate webbed foot,
        the color of charcoal.
            Soon it will be here.

Oh, what shall I do
    when that poppy-colored beak
        rests in my hand?
            Said Mrs. Blake of the poet:


I miss my husband’s company—
    he is so often
        in paradise.
            Of course! the path to heaven

doesn’t lie down in flat miles.
    It’s in the imagination
        with which you perceive
             this world,

and the gestures
    with which you honor it.
        Oh, what will I do, what will I say, when those
            white wings
        touch the shore?