Harbor Porpoise

Off what Thornbjörg calls the stern,

or what I refer to as where

you look upon the place you

cannot return, one broke on through.

With little purpose but to tease,

eye our sound ship, or take leave

of the dog whistle our prop

pitches ineptly into the eerie.

Suturing the path to where

it was bound, it hung split seconds

in a realm unsoundable by its sonar.

If only we could enter our dreams thus.

The cruise ship’s marriage counselor

spoke to me in Norwegian, and I

agreed, knowing there was only

so much she could have said

as it took the sun—and unlike

beach stones once you get them

home, kept its sodden hue

going black into sea.