My yawn might thrust
a froth-clapped wave at your
Admiral Perry in the Pacific,
smacking against the starboard side
of the metal hull,
pinging a signal back to me
that you are alive and well.
It might not. It might be incosequentially
fleetingly beautiful, a tired sigh.
It might simply be the heaviness of the air as July approaches
on my bench here in Princeton. It might be something.