I am afraid of your hand....


From
the
Interior

Cormorants


The boats of your masters are black;
They are filthy with the slimy filth of ages; like the
canals on which they float they give forth an evil
smell.
On soiled perches you sit, swung out on either side over
the scummy water--you who should be savage
and untamed, who should ride on the clean breath
of the sea and beat your pinions in the strong
storms of the sea.
Yet you are not held.
Tamely you sit and willingly, ten wretches to a boat,
lurching and half asleep.

Around each throat is a ring of straw, a small ring, so
that you may swallow only small things, such as
your masters desire.
Presently, when you reach the lake, you will dive.
At the word of your masters the parted waters will
close over you and in your ears will be the gurgling
of yellow streams.