The boat was packed.  The others in my group

had jostled for some benches in the cabin,

but I stood at the railing, brushing against

a large man in a charcoal suit, a mother

fussing to keep two children by her side.

The sun was up, silvering the wave crests,

and land was distant, twisted strips of green,

except for islands, now and then, brick ruins

and cranes with piles of building materials.

Wide water.  And then, from way back when, “The water

is wide.”  The motor of the waterbus

rumbled so numbly, I began to sing

in murmurs, “I cannot get over,” thinking

of you, my love, across the ocean’s time zones,

as two old men stood in a sandolo

and rowed the other way, “and neither have

I wings to fly,” as gulls accompanied

our groaning boat and sunlight mixed with breezes,

a tangible brocade of hot and cold.

“Give me a boat,” I hummed, “that can carry two,”

and wanted you here, cramped beside the railing,

where we could not help touching, flank to flank.

Our hands would have to clasp.  We’d sing together,

unheard by others, while the engine throbbed.

“And we’ll both row,” we’d swear, “my love and I.”

How could we cross the distances between us?

The mate, emerging from the pilot house,

parted the crowd by muttering “Permesso.”

His tossed rope curled around the metal post

and made the boat glide in against the dock

that floated, bumping the pier.  How could I cross

the dark lagoon that opened into ocean,

rowing against the waves that rose and rose?