I like my job, but
one thing is suboptimal:
it keeps me from you.
I'm like a program
in some dense, arcane language
only you can parse.
My ship sails straight on,
determined; but its heart-flag
flutters on the mast.
No matter the path,
any journey will make sense
if it ends with you.
My peregrine heart
soars as if free; but returns
to perch on your glove.
San Jose
August 17, 1998
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