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.