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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 8 Morning sun gets up on the horizon big as a hunter's moon. Schoolgirls come yelling in those high-piccolo notes. And in their bucket, eyes on the east side of its head, is a designer-fish, signature-fish, flatfish, flounder, a fish by Picasso. * Vc -k A spot toward Tavernier. Jogging at night, he would come upon a hulk. That remnant, decay, that memory of a ship. More a boat--the sort of ruined craft popular in the amateur studies in perspective-with the squares and triangles of their lines come to ignoble ends, beached or sinking in the tidal pools of Cape Cod. As with this one. Its gross dimensions, in particular an almost comical width to ribs and beam, and its lack of evident history gave it a rich imaginary history. In something like this, he knew, men had crept fearfully along ancient coasts. A small ark in an old flood-legend. Or it might just have been an old turtler or a shrimper Or a rumrunner. But it seemed that it could have its spirits, fine old voices joking and chanting a worksong in a sort of Carribean Esperanto while the tide rose. Under a star, it was a valueless and handsome |
