Beneath her feet are hours of open ocean,
….. ….. and Paris, still lost in night,
its blurred crystal and slow coruscation
….. ….. seen from a great height.
Flushed with dawn, the faces of the Alps
….. ….. scroll by under the port wing,
moraine and glacier in their slow collapse,
….. ….. then fade astern like everything.
At last, long spittle-white lines of surf
….. ….. rake the winter beaches of Lazio,
and she is close now, close enough
….. ….. to see pines in a windrow
between fields arable since the time of Caesar.
….. ….. Under the engine’s bell
she will move toward those who wait for her,
….. ….. but distance feels inconsolable
for just a moment, and she turns sharply
….. ….. on where she has come from,
like the river rounding the horn of an ancient city,
….. ….. or the gold fibula robbed from a tomb.