At least, this is the farewell poem I’ve written before leaving New Mexico. I shan’t be surprised if I have more farewells to say when I’ve gone.
Crossing Puget Sound,
I say how unlike the odor
of the Atlantic, not noticing yet
I don’t mean I still miss that childhood
shade of brine. Months later, my nose
is still full of it. So you’ll come with me
back to water. We’ll let the desert
sands run out, at least the ones
we don’t carry there with us, the grains
that may spill sometimes when we blink.