It’s a wise man who knows what is enough.
As when, with mackerel skies
We shortened sail
And, in the lee of the point,
Put over lines of feathers,
As silvery, wispy as the high mares’ tails
And, drifting on the turning tide,
Hit it lucky,
Pulling mackerel out by the dozen,
Murdering them, gutting some,
Cooking fewer,
Eating fewer still,
Giving the rest away on the dock
With a guilty look in our eyes,
And so, remembering another sail,
Another tidal place,
And a prison on that island,
In which hung a sign,
“Take all you want. Eat all you take,”
I institute this as a boat rule
And quietly,
Without hanging a sign,
As a rule for living.
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