Most read ▸
Dave Bonta
Take me to the dolphin.
A good husband is ballast, but he
is knowing in sea-business
and in the ice.
I row and look.
His is a serious art.
Within the dolphin,
a great lost music
given to the night.
And the fountain—
so pretty a red.
I saw the ships set off
at the beginning of love
but I know not
whether I shall see
a dolphin.
The dolphin dined
on a sandwich all alone.
I talk with my ma.
I commission the navy:
get a dolphin drunk
and marry her
in place of war.
Resolve again to see
home and bed.
Like black plunging dolphins with red bellies,
The steamers in herds
Swim through the choppy breakers
On this day of winds and clouds.
Wallowing and plunging,
They seek their path,
The smoke of their snorting
Hangs in the sky.
Like black plunging dolphins with red bellies,
The steamers pass,
Flapping their propellers
Salt with the spray.
Their iron sides glisten,
Their stays thrash:
Their funnels quiver
With the heat from beneath.
On the paved parapet
you will step carefully
from amber stones to onyx
flecked with violet,
mingled with light,
half showing the sea-grass
and sea-sand underneath,
reflecting your white feet
and the gay strap crimson
as lily-buds of Arion,
and the gold that binds your feet.
You will pass
beneath the island disk
(and myrtle-wood,
the carved support of it)
and the white stretch