my darling it’s raw here I’m in danger: my fib
my murmur my billet-doux
sent from the consummate slant
of a rock ledge glazed with grey salt
and bit of sea just so maybe perhaps
you’d describe your supplies
carry your contents your chandlery
your doses: whale oil, twine, lard,
chisel and mops. You said you’d bring
rope and cordage—headier than thread
you said you’d provide, hold a lantern
and tallow the bottom of my pretty boat
finish me with linseed oil
if only you weren’t afraid of water.