A behoovement
Icebergs behoove the soul — Elizabeth Bishop, ‘The Imaginary Iceberg’
Seeks ceaselessly a spectrum space, one third afloat and flashing in the squawking skyworld, sculptured spectacle, sailing bright white spectre-ship, two thirds submerged beneath what splashes on the skin, in stately counterweight to being awake: blue realm articulate in creaks and cracks and booms. Prussian, midnight, cuttlefish, forget- me-not. Behoven to its own and constant re-assemblage. What is the soul to do, if the icebergs melt?
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