34-37 Degrees South: Easy reading version

Odd is he
Ron Pretty
Odd, is he? Us on the wine dark sea endless to the farthest island we
sail fond in a boat. A rope in my hand his hand on my knee. Calls me
frail. Ten years before wall-fall he say? Fights ten years? Swears on
knees. Ten weeks more like. And that’s a sail set tight to catch the
breeze. Him fight at that Trojan wall? Don’t make me laugh. Him fight
in tent with Cally Ipso Facto. (Me). I jump in skiff. He follow fast like
devil-sent. Him of the hymns for calmest sea sail gently a-flap. Never
an albatross, shark or whale him to frighten. Steadily he bails but
when the sea stirs he’s a total loss. Odd, is he? Us stern down (heavy
he is) adrift on the sparkling sea no map or compass, but search
my land where my web keeps him free. Ithika it ain’t. Where Penny
lopin’ in the kitchen doin’ her stitchin’ with all the would-bees waitin’
there rattlin’ scabbards an’ all day bitchin’. Crankier yet those swains
will be finding ten years to wait and more before I sick of him, swim
away leave him driftin’ to his waiting shore. Odd is he. O, us on the
wine dark sea at last to the farthest isle he sail. Him home at last. Me
cough him up, hand him on, my fabulant male.
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