Eleven White Boats Moored on the Black Sea
Harold Bowes

But that came later;

the following morning there were only seven

with names like Virgen del Valle and Nul, Nul,

not completely white, either, but with green and red trim.

But before the boats we were on the airplane.

The prosaic, commonplace things you remembered on the plane:

That first cross country train trip and the orange light in the cabins
at night.

How when you were lifting the tea kettle from the stove one morning,
it cast a ring of white light on the kitchen walls.

The yellow highlighter following a sentence like this one through
to the end.

The cousin who, returning with his family from Yellow Stone, stopped
to spend the night.

Jackie looking back across her shoulder at you.

The brother who collects places instead of things.

The sister who said you must come through this

to a new place.