They gaze across obsidian
water, to speculate
about that final
launch they’ll board. Hope
and fear of Hurry, and
get your things. What language will
possess the air. Hills they’ll stand
upon, halls inhabit. Tokens
to exchange — rings of
beaten gold or black tin, smocks
of fine holland or Scotch
cloth. The will they might
have of each other. What
dews will wet their skins; what rains
fall on their locks. And who
will let them in.
Joel Chace
.