Poetry or prose?

Circumnambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon.
Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip,
and from thence, by Whitehall, northward.

What do you see?

Posted like silent sentinels
all around the town
stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men
fixed in ocean reveries.

Some leaning against the spiles;
some seated upon their pierheads;
some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China;
some high aloft in the rigging,
       as if trying to get still a better seaward peep.

But these are all landsmen;
of week days pent up in lath and plaster --
tied to counters,
nailed to benches,
clinched to desks.

How then is this?

Are the green fields gone?

What do they here?

***************************************************

Circumnambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook
to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?
Posted like silent sentinels all around the town stand thousands upon
thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some
seated upon their pierheads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from
China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if trying to get still a better seaward
peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster --
tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are
the green fields gone? What do they here?

Why decide?

--John

-
* Unsubscribing? Mail majordomo@roughdraft.org with the message
* UNSUBSCRIBE BANANAFISH
Received on Mon Jun 30 17:54:24 2003