Form in its splendor is to the fore in beauty, shining with the sign of universality, but attending to the strange intimacy. William Desmond, The Intimate Universal, 100.

A beautiful dusk,

a muggy late summer dusk,

sometimes a rare breeze

off the Bay. I sit

where I can view the sailboats

plunge and come about,

before returning.

I see them safely into

dock, and then come home.

Only home is not

home. I hear the rising wind

whine in the rigging.