The city is still light that we came from
and so is the way the ferry takes us
quick this first of spring
across the winter-breaking bay on the other side.
My eyes wince at the glitter of water
in the lapsing wake
and shift up to where bright wings
alight in the back wind
hang haloed, at rest in the harsh air.
I could not hang there.
These gulls that hover and veer
to catch bread tossed up from the rails
go nowhere, ride on the wind.
I need you, and you are not with me.
I'm riding this afternoon instead with my good friend
to Sausalito and back for the journey's sake.
We have no other reason.
In the wind we catch hands like lovers, he and I.
After all, maybe we are.
We keep finding this wonder, this world,
When we turn to it, as we do now,
and it is in his eyes, not yours,
that bird is harnessed by the astonishing light.
No. That's not so. It is in my own eyes.
We are not lovers now, if once we were.
We only clasp hands at the rail as we watch a bright bird
wind-stalled in sunlight
that drives him upward and out of range
crying love, crying ravenous love.
This is the truth:
A beautiful hovering is not enough.
Fury is unfastening my own injurious cry.
I love you.
I will drive you upward.
I will gather in you like the light springing
amorous of and around these wings
in their surly rising.
Raucous with love
I will hurl my brilliant cries against your flight.