D. E. Steward

Gold Tahitian mangos with their tight-skin Sam Francis blush  
Number One Yankee fore and mizzen staysails main unreefed
Two hundred-fifty nautical from all jet trails seven miles high
With the Marianas Trench the equal depth as regularly we fly
Open-ocean nights locked on the Southern Cross and the four
Zenith stars with the procession of Atria Acrux Alpha Centauri
Beta Centauri Avoir Gacrux Achernar Canopus and Al Na'ir
The horizon is three to four miles off from a sailboat's deck
Sun through a shower is a monkey's wedding faces upturned
Fairy terns teeming in the ironwood trees behind Papeete
In the evening calm off Faaa as we crossed hanging close in
Twelve Tahitian women six to a canoe paddles poised waited
And held our gaping stares level and they all laughed at once
So what Fletcher Christian knew two tropic centuries ago
That open sex that drew Melville here and captured Gauguin
That instant was our latitude no longitudinal zenith stars
Necessary with Gienah Zubenelgenubi Sabnik aloft behind