from Cutty Sark

I met a man in South Street, tall— a nervous shark tooth swung on his chain. His eyes pressed through green glass —green glasses, or bar lights made them so— shine— GREEN— eyes— stepped out—forgot to look at you or left you several blocks away— in the nickel-in-the-slot piano jogged “Stamboul Nights”—weaving somebody’s nickel—sang— O Stamboul Rose—dreams weave the rose! Murmurs of Leviathan he spoke, and rum was Plato in our heads . . . “It’s S.S. Ala—Antwerp—now remember kid to put me out at three she sails on time. I’m not much good at time any more keep weakeyed watches sometimes snooze—” his bony hands got to beating time . . . “A whaler once— I ought to keep time and get over it—I’m a Democrat—I know what time it is—No I don’t want to know what time it is—that damned white Arctic killed my time . . . ” O Stamboul Rose—drums weave— “I ran a donkey engine down there on the Canal in Panama—got tired of that— then Yucatan selling kitchenware—beads— have you seen Popocatepetl—birdless mouth with ashes sifting down—? and then the coast again . . . ” Rose of Stamboul O coral Queen— teased remnants of the skeletons of cities— and galleries, galleries of watergutted lava snarling stone—green—drums—drown—