LIKE It's not so much, abstractions are available: the lofty period of the mind ending a sentence while the pain endures: departures, absences. And you are still on the dock, the smoke hasn't cleared from the last blast but the ship is already in The Narrows. At noon I sit in Jim's Place waiting for George who is mopping the stage up, while two girls cry in the last row. I think they got laid last night. But who didn't? it was a spring night. Probably George did, too. And now the ship has gone beyond come, sheets, windows, streets, telephones, and noises: to where I cannot go, not even a long distance swimmer like my self.