is when your car ends facing backwards
     on the wrong side of the road

when the wind beats your umbrella
     till its insides all hang out

when the water takes your little boat
     and spins it like a plate.

It’s like a song reversed, a church
     constructed widershins

to face the falling sun, the day
     next week or sometime soon

you’ll take a truth and twist it,
     turn a child to face the wall

or force a man stark naked
     to get down and lick the floor.

It’s the dream which has you driving
     down exactly the wrong street

as you race to reach your boat
     before it sails.

It’s the wind along the western quay,
     the voices in its throat

the seaman on the closing doors,
     the words you hear him shout

I'll wait. I'll wait all night
     if need be. I can wait.