Like a yacht that rocks against its dock and cleats
And knocks the light around its too sleek decks,
A restless man will drink to box the time
Between clams at noon and mussels at five.

On the lap of an oily bay, the fullblown day
Bides, bides completely in the tinks of fire
That a fair wind threw into the dangling flags,
Into the solution of each night’s stars.

Until the deadweight sits on wild palettes
You too should bide, until metaphysics
Is lavished as fiercely as the sunshine,
You should abide this high-falutin speech

As if someone is dying for the news
That takes him beyond a frosted highball
Into a heaven of the gentlest blue —
The empty afternoons are forgiven.