Lest we sink meaning through doubleness 
or make the boat coast unduly west, 
we’d better reel in all we’ve cast 
and call it a morning, for morning’s sake. 

The gills on the slats make a noise 
nothing like the water flanking us, 
and the childish routine of demand- 
shake-convulse is miles from our minds. 

The way you lift your head, as if to yawn 
into the cataracting day, would shake 
the sternest beast to tears, or a moan 
that reminds why one seeks, at last, the shore: 

to sing, perhaps, against the surety 
of the thing, to coax the water in.