Leaning ahead high at the knife-long bow of the motor-cruiser,

North air on his face, he felt it all slow down, the prow lower

Into the narrower, the civilized channel. He came down

To the talk on the so very varnished wideness of the after-deck;

To his hostesses; to three-foot trays of one-inch hors d'oeuvres,

Spread under the expensive sun. The boat steered itself.

Everyone took two,. seven, the men more. From her white leather pillow

Filed corner, a woman not the boat's owner laughed and said,

He gives the cucumber the chive the olive the anchovy

To everyone, so generous, and laughed and said again, So generous.

She had been blonde. Laughing, she said, It is incredible,

Is it not? The sort of thing one can no longer avoid,

She said, as the cruiser slowed into shallow water. He jumped overboard,

He waded ashore in not very deep water, mud, mud, some gravel,

Then white sand and coarse grass, and got away with it.

No one really noticed. Dodging left-handled doors, reaching right,

Somehow they all opened, he went through, mayonnaise and mud,

He was running in an oldtime movie, but he was ashore.

The sidewalks lined up for him, he slowed down at the street-corners.

He knew what he was heading for, people who looked like him.

No one can hurt you if you look like people, he said.