Now I see it—
a white sail beginning to peek
just over the lip of the horizon
where the swift tidal flow of Avenue “Z”
meets the stop-and-go dribble of East 18th---
makes for landfall.

Now I see it.  The sail
isn’t a sail, it’s a sleeveless summer shirt.
Now I see him—it must be Ephraim.
I think I see a bald,
short man taking long strides,
a righteous, rolled New York Post tucked
under one armpit, his free arm
swinging very high, as high
as one of Her Majesty’s Lincolnshire Regimentals
parading into Delhi from Jalandhar.