WEBVTT

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I want to go back
some years before that

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was written to some poems.

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Starting with something
out of The Moving Target,

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which was published
in the early 60s.

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Happens to desks all
the time, but I didn't

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know it happened that fast.

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Poem called "Departure's
Girlfriend."

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Loneliness leapt in the
mirrors, but all week I

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kept them covered like cages.

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Then I thought of
a better thing.

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And though it was late night in
the city, there I was on my way

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to my boat, feeling
good to be going,

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hugging this big wreath with
the words like real silver--

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bon voyage.

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The night was mine, but
everyone's, like a birthday.

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It's fur touched
my face in passing.

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I was going down
to my boat, my boat

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to see it off and
glad at the thought.

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Some leaves of the wreath
were holding my hands,

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and the rest waved
goodbye as I walked as

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though they were still alive.

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And all went well till I
came to the wharf and no one.

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I say no one, but I mean there
was this young man maybe out

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of the Merchant
Marine in some uniform

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and I knew who he was-- just the
same when he said to me "where

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do you think you're going?"

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I was happy to tell him.

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But he said to me, "it isn't
your boat, you don't have one."

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I said, "it's mine
I can prove it".

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Look at this wreath
I'm carrying to it--

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bon voyage.

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He said, "this is
the stone wharf lady.

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You don't own anything here."

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And as I was turning away
the injustice of it lit up

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the buildings, and there I was
in the other and hated city

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where I was born, where
nothing is moored,

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where the lights crawl over the
stone like flies spelling now,

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now, and the same fat
chances roll their many eyes.

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And I step once more
through a hoop of tears

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and walk on, holding
this buoy of flowers

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in front of my beauty.

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Wishing myself the good voyage.

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[APPLAUSE]

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