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Ghoti

by
 The gh comes from rough, the o from women's,
and the ti from unmentionables--presto:
there's the perfect English instance of
unlovablility--complete

with fish.
Our wish was for a better revelation: for a correspondence-- if not lexical, at least phonetic; if not with Madonna then at least with Mary Magdalene.
Instead we get the sheer opacity of things: an accident of incident, a tracery of history: the dung inside the dungarees, the jock strap for a codpiece, and the ruined patches bordering the lip.
One boot (high-heeled) could make Sorrento sorry, Capri corny, even little Italy a little ill.
Low-cased, a lover looks one over--eggs without ease, semen without oars-- and there, on board, tricked out in fur and fin, the landlubber who wound up captain.
Where's it going, this our (H)MS? More west? More forth? The quest itself is at a long and short behest: it's wound in winds.
(Take rough from seas, and women from the shore, unmentionables out of mind).
We're here for something rich, beyond appearances.
What do I mean? (What can one say?) A minute of millenium, unculminating stint, a stonishment: my god, what's utterable? Gargah, gatto, goat.
Us animals is made to seine and trawl and drag and gaff our way across the earth.
The earth, it rolls.
We dig, lay lines, book arguably perfect passages.
But earth remains untranslated, unplumbed.
A million herring run where we catch here a freckle, there a pock; the depths to which things live words only glint at.
Terns in flight work up what fond minds might call syntax.
As for that semantic antic in the distance, is it whiskered fish, finned cat? Don't settle just for two.
Some bottomographies are brooded over, and some skies swum through.
.
.

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