Her clothes spread wide, And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up; Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes, As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature native and indu'd Unto that element; but long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death. --Hamlet, Act IV, Scene vii Lying in the lily pool Afloat above the muck White skin fused with duckweed A-honking at the ducks I drift by feathered willows A small and lonely boat -- My balooning robe of linen Is flag, is sail, is float. The red flat webs of fierce drake Assault the placid duck My sad persistent honking Sends them flying up; I move into the river By currents carried on Past water reeds and muskrat With tears midst quacking sounds. The downward pull of mandrake Tightening round my feet The amber eye of heron The proud and oiled grebe -- They know I don't belong here My honking proves it true Yet slowly they surround me Why, P.Q., won't you?First frantic blowing spewing My face beneath the flow, Then slowly sucking in and out Deep and down I go; My heart alone and lonely My lungs throb with the swell I only wish to feed the fish Farewell, my dear, farewell.