Sorting the Unsettle Debris

The world does not hold together;

judge it as a ship that were but papered-over debris,

break-up the broken, weathered

parts, take a stand in the fractures:

fasten anchors to some of the wreckage

and let us call the sails a parachute; capture

what might still be fitted at the seams,

and the parachute to the remains we’ll tether,

burn rejected wood for lift, and sail towards undreamt dreams.


The ship-parts sign a world (in metonymic verse):

the captain was always a churl (we’ll sink his cabin first);

the lovely stowaway girl would tend the sails (while full of mirth);

the well-powdered inspector annexed the rudder (can our anger take it back?);

the cook, wasteful with his store of provisions, should not be given slack.

The penniless gambler, thirsting for the game, won’t loosen his grip on our legs;

spilled, the silk-crates we’d both admire spiral down to the dregs.

The purser who paid so to stay and flay the slaved, has not remained (likely afraid);

we’ve radio’d command, who now air-drops food (but cannot send other aid).


Trunks of cargo drift apart, we can’t straddle them all, but cast

our lots and stand on just a couple, while sun-kissed skin peels, dead.

Things of our lives are only loosely-bundled driftwood log-rafts;

decide between warring affections and passions: kiln these in your head.

5 thoughts on “Sorting the Unsettle Debris

  1. You brought to mind, this:

    The Second Coming

    By William Butler Yeats
    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
    The darkness drops again; but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Pingback: Bridges, II | Into the Clarities

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