The beautiful white sails wander into
the whirlpool of the kitchen sink,
clotted cheese, carrot bits, green
gum swirled down the city’s throat.
Some nights something at the throat
catches, the restaurant turns into
a tank, then I see in the dark green
water the plates and silver sink,
and after them the divers sink
down the comfortable throat,
their small lights algaed green,
their small bodies curling into
shrimps, into worms, sinking,
and turning, down the dark green throat.