In some quiet bay
or deserted inlet
he is waiting for me
It is noon
there is a stillness on water and land
as if some primal god is about to speak;
in the sky
not a single bird is to be seen flying
I shall swim out towards him
bringing him my incurable moral ache
and my cancered liver,
memories of women laughter Greek islands
griefs and humiliations I could find no words for
I want him to be black, wholly black
I want him to be famished and solitary
I want him to be quietly ready for me
as if he were the angel of death
The last thing I want my alive eyes
to behold before I close them forever
are his ripsaw teeth
-Irving Layton, 1974
