Call it co-conspirator of wind,
bulb of intrigue,
vertiginous pillar of salt,
valedictorian
of the school of memory,
innumerate heart, luminous muscle,
drum, rhythm 
of triolet, antiphonal sonnet,
plume of hope,
postman for salvation,
gospel,
the last loaf of bread—
here, now,
how else can it be said? 
What else 
is this but another year blinking back 
at you? The sky growing older
but never farther away,
the darkness swiveling the stars into view—
and it is only a view, 
you know, a one-way passage, a port 
with nothing to trade 
but the words we use to pin 
fragile wings 
of otherwise unsayable things.
My friend, 
what I am trying to tell you is 
it’s only us 
now in our singular boats, 
seeking the harbor.