1

Its wooden legs crack through the ice-capped snow
and are anchored so the monster's eye
is where your eye fringed with ice finds its eyepiece.
The light, you say, the dark, blue light.

The ship lists and cracks,
its masts long shadows.
The shrouds hang heavy with ice
making the yards live.

So little light, the plates must be exposed
while the heart beats blindly on.
The silver slowly changes
on the glass taking on the black
of waiting while the inevitable
is prefigured