Classic Poem

A cutter risen from the mollusks, it is a god
with a god carved on the stempiece,
arriving in Detroit with Jesuits,
canvas, cable, chain, tar, paint . . .
faluccas, pinnaces and brigantines
with mainsail hauled out on a little tackle.

Here cometh not the King of France
nor the Secretary for the Latin Tongue
nor the Lord High Butler of England
with coronation jewels.

I spit on them al.
They have broken me for the last time.
I lie on the high poop al the night
with open eye, with wenches singing
in radium like Chaucer and the smale fowles.

A sail in Atlantis in the morning, a Sappho
of a sloop slapping the buss ship London
white and anchored as a living clam.