Leaving the Sea

The waves are gray, running in, and the sky

is gray too. Light rises from water and wind,

obliquely. The tide is past the flood.

I'm still grateful, but I'm puzzled.

Why was I sent here, with an empty envelope

to deliver to a bad address?

There won't be many more,

and a grand love now would only ruin me:

I am leaving the sea.

Now the spine of my life

must be the making of small

and intricate things; the replacement

of a rotting window-sill

with good sound wood;

the call of a thrush

from the red sunrise.

The foam slides in long, ghost-white garlands

down wet obsidian slopes, whispering

of promises long unkept. When I woke this morning

the light of your eyes was fading from mine:

my arms were empty.