The fishermen
are hauling on their nets for nothing;
their hands, quicker than spiders,
are among the copper cords,
the blue sea-bottles,
and their eyes
are pressed into a green wind.
The fishermen
are dragging the bay for monsters;
they are caging the waves for demons,
for sea-girls
and the deep down drag of love.
The nets are in the water,
they are heavy with silver in the onyx water.
The fishermen
are hauling on their nets for fish:
and one sees the eyes of his father
in a bearded wave,
and some watch the islands
rounding out of the water like breasts
or the curved belly of love.
1948