My scurvy approximations that count
Human dealings on their barge and rafters,
Numbers not those watchful eyes and faces
Paddling mirth through for river boat shows.
The cat’s lip hangs not like a cudgel threat
But sweeps a sleepy bargeman’s striving task.
Then ropes allow, for two, met embankment
Their idle cove, so says a bullfrog’s moan.
In violet hazes, the steam links fondly
As though in its diffusion it relates:
“You latest spittle, enjoy your color;
And compact now you well become the sky.”
Gamblers heed nothing of this relation.
The last win or fall cause for celebration,
Eyes at blind tasks mark no undulation
That out there stacks upon our steady course.