We measured the ship, oh the ship

and the waves, oh the waves, how they

crashed and they slammed into sensual graves.

And we polished the rig and the tug and the light,

and the black and the gray and the white and the rest.

And we longed for the sleep of the summer retreat in the ivory fields of our ethereal deep sea anemone home.

So we drank from the conche that lay locked in the bed of the shell of the pearl that our ancestors bred.

And the moon was a fist that lay clenched in the sky,

like a judge who proclaimed that the sun was as far and as deep as it nigh.

And he slept in a vest that was orange and pale and she swam through the night

with a shark and a seal and a whale and the rest.

And they crossed through the world with a driftwood machine that was built from the seams of a manta ray queen,

and they soaked up the darkness of space and the stars with a basket weaved blue of a sea horse's dream.