In the cabin - the water makes
Ganglets of sound,
The prow ploshes the choppy water.
Backed by the clouds in his thunderous tack
He in a flurry of clubfoots, luft jibs,
Thumps the rudder and applesauces
The wake of a jet plane
Slicing white Lucky Strike-like through the sky
Behind and above him. And as I
Hold tightly to my fat-fanny-west
Green inside the chortling hold
Of the tilt sail cabin
He comes about to the East
And the sun shines.