What fills the sails that is not

the wind fills me now.

What is not feather, bone,

beak or wing of bird,

but still of bird, is in me.

They say in seven years

we regenerate all our cells.

So in three years our love will be

on its second body. Imagine

fingers of a wave, reaching up a shore,

an open palm of sky;

nothing with the heaviness

of muscle, bone, the sorrow

of an empty chair.