Jory Mickelson


Enough of water
melding and welded to air,
a seamless wedding dress,
gray sea and the song
it sings to erase itself.

I am always departing,
but at evening nothing sings,
not water, not wind.

Gulls depart the shore,
always through the gray
white gate of wing.

The train along
the bay's ellipse
isn't singing.

Only a boat's low call,
the empty benches of wave
and the boat's propeller
turning over: I do. I do.