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O, the navies old and oaken,
O, the Temeraire no more!
— MELVILLE
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.