The Net Of Our Kisses

 Yes he is, says Kant. How did you know?

Just a guess, says Faith. It was because he asked what does it matter.

Well? says Arthur.

It probably doesn't matter that much, says Faith. My SARDI colleagues will take multiple depth measurements.

Then we don't need this thermometer, says Arthur.

Give it to me, says Kant. 

Arthur hands Kant the thermometer.

So you're a poet, says Faith. I've been telling Mr Kant how much I like poetry. 

Really? says Sweezus, because Arthur, who should have said Really has not said Really.

Yes, says Faith. In fact, I collect poems about fish.

How very interesting, says Kant. I wonder if Schiller ever mentioned fish in his poems?

I don't know any poems about fish, says Sweezus. Except for that kids' one.

You shall have a fishy in a little dishy, says Faith. When the boo-at comes in.

What is a boo-at? asks Kant.

A boat, says Faith. That's just how they used to pronounce it.

Arthur wrote a poem about a boo-at, says Sweezus, nudging Arthur.

The Drunken Boo-at, says Arthur. 

It wouldn't've been a boo-at in French, says Sweezus. 

It was a bateau, says Arthur. A Drunken Bateau.

I don't think I know it, says Faith. Were there fish in it?

Yes, says Arthur, eternal rollers, unknown saps, hysterical cows, giant serpents devoured by bedbugs and fish of gold.

Eating the serpents? asks Faith.

No, that was from a separate stanza, says Arthur.

Tell me that one, says Faith.

Arthur tries to recall it.

He was drunk when he wrote it, and it seems like a long  time ago.

But it's still recollectable, a good thing about poems.

I should have liked to show children those sunfish of the blue wave, the fish of gold, the singing fish, foam of flowers, says Arthur.

That's beautiful, says Faith. I shall add it to my collection.

I don't suppose you know the poems of Pablo Neruda, says Faith.

Fish ones? says Sweezus.

You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with his golden feet, says Faith. I reply the ocean knows this.

Did he write that? says Sweezus.

Yes, and this, says Faith:

We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, and lay like fish under the net of our kisses.

That is a nice image, says Kant. 

He wonders if Faith is unmarried.