Ship of Ships

Ship of Ships




(April, 1912)


It is sinking

Irreversibly.

Whistles abate.

Bells diminish.

The chuggings of

Lower quarters

Grind and wheeze.

Rowings are heard

‘Gainst the waves.

Tempo setting in.

Lifeboats all dispatched.

But too few.

Friends call to each other

Cross the darkness.

Deck fires paint a cracked

Flash on the brine.

Great ship lists

Horribly

To the fore.

Stragglers and those resigned

Sit at lounge chairs,

Awaiting inevitability.

Hands held.

“I love you” spoken.

One baleful voice

Cries through the fog

(As if alone, where

Crowds had just streamed,

Voices discordant.)

“Herbert, dear,

I’m waiting for you.”

Atlantic cold

Clarifies the strains

Of small orchestra.

Dignified departure.

Debussy.

And this had been

The Ship of ships.

Frigid saline fingers

Thanking the ice;

Grabbing more and more

Of its girth.

Pulling it down.

How many are sinking right now?