I hope one day she understands
that I always wanted
to be there. The currents kept running
the wrong way, these oars
kept splitting and bleeding. The sun
was always in my eyes,
the stars were full
of typos. But I'm still coming
into port. I hope that's her
standing on the pier, hands
in her pockets, scuffs on her shoes, a seashell
growing out of her ear.