the fish give themselves one night a year

in some oblique similarity to Jules Verne
who stowed always a rope in case of fire
I assess women as potential partners
by how they might operate
adrift on an open boat

at night on the South Atlantic—
would they make pies
from triggerfish eyes
would they fill swim bladders
with broth made of dorados
hang them on such albatross air

as was then available
to sparkle about us as
Christmas approached &
would they administer
fish-oil enemas
to our clogged children

(the high protein
diet with little roughage is known to afflict
firstly the young) unluffing
the sail

with the other hand &
talking of William Bligh
of Poon Lim of secrets
of navigation

by the long atlantic swells
would they commit acts
of random sex during
our tossing sleep
at such a time
at such a time

in all things would they give themselves unstinting
to this new narrow life?

I think Alain Bombard
may now be the only girl for me
.
.