Song from the Other End

Would you believe me: a cabin
            written up from birch, all the sea-
gulls athirst for the windowsill,
            the wind profuse with bergamot
zest, monastic lupines musing
            on the far west. For your arrival
I stand guard of this shore. Here
            froth-speech begun eternities ago
crashes up; crafts long left glisten
            whether the distance is opening
or closing. You press homewards
            at a subarctic pace, each step a key
above the eighty-eighth, scarring on
            the impossible—you throb faster
and faster until tremolo becomes
            white noise, your heart throttling
its way past all scorn-fields. Come
            witness your coda, the last fermata:
every page upflame to the sky,
            light enough to let itself end.