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The Marquise inquired; fruit baskets appeared. There were hours to note how perfectly The weather held its breath. We folded our newspapers flat. And that was that. The moment of beautiful gestures Had passed, though I kept longing For the wherewithal. The party of six, the elderly ladies at lunch, Would have to go forward; There was no picking up their tab. I saw them filch a bit of Sevres, Saw their purses swallow up A fish knife, a crystal ashtray. I was reminded of Mama. Later, floating upward, toward Stavanger, We lived on finger food, took tea; 
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Watched them
haunt the deck, Club-footed, oath-bound; Listened for the lecture bell; Leaned in to hear the broking experts. They advised short-terms. We scribbled notes, with no intention. Our stomachs rumbled. And we passed through the narrowing fjord, Craning necks at Preikestolen, The table of rock like an altar or butcher block, The way thinning like hair, The ship slow as a breaker. Our mission: To dislodge the Aortic ice, The tissue of ten thousand days, And carry on toward the glaring white To a final reflection Here, at the mirror of magnetic poles,  |
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