New Ships

The new ships go from the harbor
Trailing behind them the banner of gone. 

The bow parts the water,
It's sound, going.

The new ships go from the harbor
And I watch them go.

The inky wake carries my eye,
Breaks the reflection of a harbinger moon.

On softer nights, Her light was a slow-breaking grin, an embrace.
An easy dance to the edge of something glorious.

Now she is less promise than threat,
The world's own cold, disembodied heart.

She watches each vessel leave something of itself in its wake.
A trace of blood in the vein.

She knows all new ships go.
Going is their shape.

Even though the harbor meets them, arms eager, enveloping,
the urge for going is too great for moorings to hold.

Going becomes well-practiced misery,
As poisonous and natural as calling a new lover by an old name.

So new ships go,
And harbors hold, and ache.