By the courses that our ships are on,
there is no future where our paths will cross.
We may pass briefly under midnight's ignorant gaze,
a mighty gust causing the mast to wave like a tall pine,
allowing our sails to blindly embrace;
a tangle of fragile white sheets and rigging feverishly shaking.
Cloth on cloth wracked with spasms by an abrasive Pacific wind.
By the time the daylight cracks the sky,
My sail will no better remember yours,
than yours will remember mine.
It is already far too late for a change of course,
the winds have blown us too steadily beyond our passing point.
Soon the waves will knock clumsily against new gunnels
coaxing new ships close enough for blushing,
while we sleep indifferently within their walls.
Only a few months from this night I will be home,
having returned from my final season on the sea;
where I slept through our passing, obliviously.