Джим Моррисон
и
The Doors

When the still sea conspires an armor

And her sullen and aborted

Currents breed tiny monsters,

True sailing is dead.



Awkward instant

And the first animal is jettisoned,

Legs furiously pumping

Their stiff green gallop,

And heads bob up.

Poise

Delicate

Pause

Consent

In mute nostril agony

Carefully refined

And sealed over.