Of course she'll wave goodbye, the oceanliner's
melancholy size towering like Manhattan.
Of course she'll be obscure standing at the rail,
the only visible passenger, like someone
at a window so small she disappears
behind the beauty of her gesture,
her raised hand one of the waves that starts
at sea and builds. And later on of course
she'll stroll the high elliptic of the deck
while each immortal hour plows the colder,
deeper shades toward where the sun perpetually
sets its billion bullion lode and lays a gold
path leading west, easy to follow, within
whose wake, against the dark, this sail.