Lighted Windows

Lighted windows
on a cold autumn evening,
seek out as certainly as a searchlight
or beacon,
the homeless child
whose nose is pressed to a window.

I remember I once had a vision:
I am on deck on the ocean.
The deck's in motion.
Falling back are the lights of safe harbor.
At my feet, black water peels back
from the bow,
leaving a frothy wake.

Gulls glide into light from darkness,
angelic ghosts,
light white on breasts.
They flicker for a moment
and slide off
and with them all hope.

Exiled on a foreign ship,
I can see a shore
and the lights of what could have been
safe harbor.
Then the shore goes black.
I am left on a sidewalk that's cracked.
I am cold. I shudder.
The sidewalk seems to lift and drop back.
I have lost my rudder.