That little skiff’s swinging back and forth again.
She must be light, like paper, the way
the wind can drive her off so easily
upon her tether.
It's not
going to get any better. The wind's
been picking up all afternoon.
Across the bay,
everything is darkening, getting lower.
It's gathering now. I can feel the air
cooling down all around me, like ice.
I don't want to think about the skiff
being driven back and forth all night,
shuddering against her tether.
Listen to me.
I'm not talking to you about him: the one
who thinks he has to leave his wife,
gets high too much. I'm talking to you
about the other one: The one
who's dying, the one on fire,
the one that you've been hostaging.