Picture: Fish and Tomatoes by Chaim Soutine
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For four pieces of silver,
I bought a fine boat.
I rowed on until my arms were sore
And, to the lightest waft of salt, they’d quiver;
There, my foul limbs found rest,
Softly shook by the receding tide,
In the middle of a blue nowhere-to-hide.
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The expanded crystalline moat,
As if to mimic another world, its sky,
Pushed on, towards the boat,
Towards my very floating-self,
A big fiery sun;
And then another, and then another,
And more;
‘Till I was besieged, demi-garlanded
By those empty worlds of red,
Duller and dimmer as they’d approached,
Now declassed to a rank of Marses,
As if ranking wasn’t futile sport;
I was sprawled and draped,
Finally crowned, for my own futile sport,
In red.
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On the third day,
My craft was empty,
I’d smile with pity from above:
A waft of salt,
And the meal is served.
Is there aught
That is truly futile anyway?
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Herons