ERAS OF LONGING

I stand concealed

like a gull waiting for a fish to fly.

Passengers with the same oaths and expectations

come and go on the harbor wall,

the years slide slowly over the sails

like rainwater on a badly leveled path.

The eras of longing end up beyond the horizon,

in the village on the shore where at night

an old woman hides her coins in a kerchief

that once covered her hair.