The horned fish on the north nave gets scant sunlight as the winter wears on, but seasonal shadows help him seem more sinister than absurd. He’ll tell no tale about himself; fish feed on the exploits of others.
“Take up a line”—and so we sail
Behind the storm. We hold our own;
When luff-seams shred, our lidmen pale
Take up a line. And so we sail,
And when you dread that sureties fail
The loves of men on strands unknown,
Take up a line and sew. We sail;
Behind the storm, we hold our own.