after the titanic sank
I swam for six weeks
against the ice-cold sea

was battered at last
against a rock,

so here I squat now
growing a beard of icicles in the storm
that howls across the barren islet,
and desperately labour
to obliterate the three kinds of grief -
for those who have drowned,
for those who live,
and for myself.

while far behind me,
washed up on the shoreline,
all that I once loved
is decaying now,
waiting to be discarded for good:

  my case with the music in it
  my book with the words in it
  my trunk with the recipes in it
  my soul with all that I felt

so I start anew now
in the frozen wasteland
for time is

seemingly endless


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