I’ve laid my coat on your bed as if you were my friend,
as if, overlapped with quiet sea light, I could sit here
and rest a moment from the future, with Nessie
next to me under her blanket, still listening to you
when sleep rolls over her like a fog. Thank you for letting me
plunge into your books, your crags and gardens,
those drifts of language in your cold seas—for not minding
how I eavesdrop at the table where your head is bent.
Today you’re angling for stars. It must be hard to hook them
in the misty afternoon, but you manage. Even lines you cut
hang round the sky like ghosts. I breathe their absence,
the shapes they leave. When I put my coat on, fumbling
for tickets to the place I’ve come from, keys to homes
that began me, I find my pockets deeper than I imagined. I will
dig in their corners for a coastline of my own. Attend to the roar
of breakers. Stay all day. Let words make their alteration.