Three men and a body in a boat—
that Gothic glint in the eye, small-drawn
arc, covering a vow, slow-bound
sea a translucent hayrick, leonine
mane devolving from an epic voyage.
I see a face imprinted on the portico,
remember the press of tongue
inordinately pointed to a city, strange
pull and draw of water, after hours
drinking cordiality of books
built to besiege, precariously, a craft:
collapse of a curtain, as we spread our arms,
roping round the body's lyricism
rousing sainted reverie –alive!–
soused in fortune like a pantheon
(the dry world parties), oared
as theotokotic missioners; waving,
continental fellowship marooned
in a thrice-illuminated dance: high
eloquence, in sailing for a chance.