(One more for the road, and still no seagulls!)

The tide also ebbs,
this gray slack dawn

taking me to O’Hare,
to the blue line,

the Magnificent Mile–
and yet already,

a distinct impression
of lack.

Although Lake Michigan
is tremendous under

storm clouds—
afloat or from dry land,

it drowns out
the shoreline, the day,

and necessitates
a more pioneering

way, dead reckoning,
finding the wind

and marrying
one’s course to it,

HOLD FAST—
as the deckhand’s

knuckles say,
an attempt to summon

long life and luck
by making hope indelible,

a poet’s trick,
as well—

This may look like the L
or Wabash in the rain

but every word here
is actually your name.