Havenish

 

“Havenish” dominates my thoughts these days forewake…is the sea not in a state of constant motion, preparing itself for man and fish?, the latter a friend and the former the roof by which the latter may reach great, detailed heights against its gill? The boat approaches at a speed that surprises me. It has been six months since I saw her last, when we clutched in a changing room and she took me in her mouth. We speak with the same voice, “Havenish…”, a ward recalling summer skin: warm, flightless.

She arrives and already I am nonsensical “Havenish”: her cardinal hair, reclining calves, heaving balsam. I am an uncomfortably dressed man of Cod, stealing to the countryside for a taste of her farmlands. I am in hill! But what can ever be done the days wafter…the sea moves, the net is cast, and I pull myself adeck, havenish.