I met a man in South Street, tall-
a nervous shark tooth swung on his chain.
His eyes pressed through green glass
-green glasses, or bar lights made them
so-
shine-
GREEN-
eyes-
stepped out-forgot to look at you
or left you several blocks away-

in the nickel-in-the-slot piano jogged
-Stamboul Nights�-weaving somebody-s nickel-sang-

O Stamboul Rose-dreams weave the rose!

Murmurs of Leviathan he spoke,
and rum was Plato in our heads . . .

-It-s S.S. Ala-Antwerp-now remember kid
to put me out at three she sails on time.
I-m not much good at time any more keep
weakeyed watches sometimes snooze-� his bony hands
got to beating time . . . -A whaler once-
I ought to keep time and get over it-I-m a
Democrat-I know what time it is-No
I don-t want to know what time it is-that
damned white Arctic killed my time . . . �

O Stamboul Rose-drums weave-

-I ran a donkey engine down there on the Canal
in Panama-got tired of that-
then Yucatan selling kitchenware-beads-
have you seen Popocatepetl-birdless mouth
with ashes sifting down-?
and then the coast again . . . �

Rose of Stamboul O coral Queen-
teased remnants of the skeletons of cities-
and galleries, galleries of watergutted lava
snarling stone-green-drums-drown-

Sing!
--that spiracle!� he shot a finger out the door . . .
'O life-s a geyser-beautiful-my lungs-
No-I can-t live on land-!'

I saw the frontiers gleaming of his mind;
or are there frontiers-running sands sometimes
running sands-somewhere-sands running . . .
Or they may start some white machine that sings.
Then you may laugh and dance the axletree-
steel-silver-kick the traces-and know-

ATLANTIS ROSE drums wreathe the rose,
the star floats burning in a gulf of tears
and sleep another thousand-

interminably
long since somebody-s nickel-stopped-
playing-

A wind worried those wicker-neat lapels, the
swinging summer entrances to cooler hells . . .
Outside a wharf truck nearly ran him down
-he lunged up Bowery way while the dawn
was putting the Statue of Liberty out-that
torch of hers you know-

I started walking home across the Bridge . . .

. . . . .

Blithe Yankee vanities, turreted sprites, winged
British repartees, skil-
ful savage sea-girls
that bloomed in the spring-Heave, weave
those bright designs the trade winds drive . . .

Sweet opium and tea, Yo-ho!
Pennies for porpoises that bank the keel!
Fins whip the breeze around Japan!

Bright skysails ticketing the Line, wink round the Horn
to Frisco, Melbourne . . .
Pennants, parabolas-
clipper dreams indelible and ranging,
baronial white on lucky blue!

Perennial-Cutty-trophied-Sark!

Thermopylae, Black Prince, Flying Cloud through Sunda
-scarfed of foam, their bellies veered green esplanades,
locked in wind-humors, ran their eastings down;

at Java Head freshened the nip
(sweet opium and tea!)
and turned and left us on the lee . . .

Buntlines tusseling (91 days, 20 hours and anchored!)
Rainbow, Leander
(last trip a tragedy)-where can you be
Nimbus? and you rivals two-

a long tack keeping-
Taeping?
Ariel?