The Crossing

First, a longing for the West,
which nonetheless has left me on a shore
I cannot cross.
Without longshoremen, sextants, canvas, charts and captains,
schedules, ships, signals and provender,
anchors, ropes and heaps of other mediating things;
without lifetimes of learned knowledge,
I cannot cross over.

Still, without the longing for the West,
without hours spent upon the shore,
hands bent across my brow against the glare,
watery eyes fixed everywhere upon the rim of heaven's dome,
upon the seam of sea and sky and shimmering beyond--
without the longing
I don't go;
I don't seek passage.
The longing never takes me there,
but without it, I cannot begin the crossing.