The New Year arrived. . . babbling in the drink.
No one but no one was ready for the flood,
the jovial frenzy was times squared -
even a moving Titanic had no time to sink!

 
Henry was homebound again in Providence,
supine with a backache on his favorite couch;
tabled at foot level - a little clay conch,
a toy fisherman's coracle - his mother's hands

 
fecit.  Lucky, christened on the bow.
A contemplative, maybe pickled pescatore,
casting his rod in the unmoulded mare.
Lucky - lucky to come up with. . . zero.

from Stubborn Grew [written in 2000, after millennial Jan 1.]

[nota: Lucky, a little clay fishing boat docked on Fisher St. in Providence, as opposed to Sophie, the little wooden bathtub boat my mother also made, which sits (to this day, I hope) on a windowsill in Elena Shvarts's apartment in Petersburg.]