Oh, I just came out to get my things.
[LAUGHTER]
One more.
OK, one more.
That makes a problem.
Now this is a poem.
I didn't know whether to read a country poem or a city poem,
and this is one which is sort of both.
It's called The Estuary.
By day we paced the many decks of the stone boat
and at night we are turned out in its high windows
like stars of another side.
Taste our mouths, we are the salt of the Earth.
Salt is memory.
In storm and cloud we sleep in fine rigging like riding birds.
Taste our fingers each with its own commandment.
Day or night, it is harder to know than we know, but longer.
We are asleep over charts at running Windows.
We are asleep with compasses in our hands.
And at the bow of the stone boat,
the wave from the ends of the Earth keeps breaking.