by Bruce Boston
A fractal radiance
clinging to their running forms,
they hope to reach the ship
before it sails.
Sometimes the ship
is a great ocean liner,
all black and white and gold,
a ship that could
travel anywhere and
keep its magisterial cool
on the roughest seas.
Sometimes it is a shinning
glyph pointed to the stars
against a stellar backdrop,
a ship ready to sail
vast astronomical distances
in the blink of a mind.
Sometimes they race
along a long rickety
wooden pier,
washed by waves
when the tide rises.
Sometimes across
the reflective floors
of a modernistic terminal,
high-ceilinged and bright
with light and air.
Few ever reach the ship
and board in time
to make their passage.
The rest keep running
to become one
with the rest of the world.