Autumn 1963 • Vol. XXV No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1963 |

The Anacortes-Sydney Run

In good dreams, I have crossed the border And my coins are wrong. Without the tongue I gesture, sweat, and wake aboard this boat. Ladies in their staterooms write bad poems— Mountains in the distance evidence of God. Maps are hard to read. Two nations own These islands. The shade of green on one Could be Canadian, but firs and grebes Are mine. The latest run of Springs Are far too international to claim. Yet they use our rivers for their graves. The law protects the San Juans. No bilge here. Gulls still trail the ferry but go hungry. You can buy an island. In my worst dream I am living here, contented and alone. That home is mine. The blue smoke rising Means I'm cooking. Constant knock of water means I'm drunk, enjoying private jokes And bowing as the walls begin to roar. The Coast Guard breezes by my door. They haven't stopped to chat in twenty years. In no dream, I am standing on this deck Admiring the sheep on what tums out to be The final island before landing. I woke up dead

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By Richard Hugo

In good dreams, I have crossed the border And my coins are wrong. Without the tongue I gesture, sweat, and wake aboard this boat. Ladies in their staterooms write bad […]

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