On Friday noon at holy convent school
The girls say grace before the chowder soup.
Our mother superior lifts the ocean grail
& Brother Jesus splashes his silver tail.
My favourite Beatle George begins to sing
And thirteen moons like pearls on silver string
Arise in sequence from the sea of mirth.
The salmon swim, swim for the rivers of their birth.
In our month, it’s half and half, the sun is seen.
The night of winter turns to water green.
The world’s a little rock in empty black
But under silver skin we find no gap.
The fish is the ticket to the undertow.
My heart is not a muscle red or frail.
On the skin of the fish it’s a silver scale.
Can I breathe and breathless be?
The deep is as deep as it’s always been.
The fish is the ticket to the undertow.
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