The Red Dory
The surrealist, tempering his reds, paints the gunwales
of a boat he has limned with his own hand. He paints
himself in the stern, an ape gazing at wave upon wave,
yet the sublime is an anesthetic under which the orangutan
has nothing to say to an exasperated sea. His quiet
virility has eclipsed sorrow, but, if so, are the oars tongues?
And if tongues, do they sink into bafflement, or do they beseech
the elephant-headed deity of good fortune to dwell among them
&, after a day not yet realized, to turn them toward home?