Hear You Are Leaving Even in the cold blast of winter wind, the gulls and garbage of the seaport hear you are leaving. Hatless statues in the rain and I shiver out of grief, and the city convulses its enormity. You, the single plow in Mesopotamia, is leaving us to plow with our hands as we must. Often when friends go into the next room, I become afraid I can never see them again. I think of leaves carried by a swollen stream, as great ships with broken masts, their captains stark naked, and their sailors never will sire children. Clinks from chinaware being fitted into boxes, and the van’s tailpipe spewing impatient exhaust. Write now in datebooks times we will confer again. And the rain keeps falling; it becomes water. Water distends into years. I hear you are leaving. The busses of a growing city wait for no one. Tunnels will reach completion on time. Even in this awkward damp, the city goes on living. Garbage is picked up. Newspapers go onto new stories. Church bells will ring of weddings as ships recede from the harbor. Koon Woon 1990 / 2024