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.