qumran

throwing fists down my throat,      
down the spine to the boards,        
scrambling to grab by the scruff of the neck        
my slow burial; excavating        
some idea of an immortal gestalt        
that I had no skill        
or say in configuring        
though would sell for a penny.        
so gladly        
       
and it’s        
as if these hands on this core would be a conclusion;        
a destination to debark:        
   from this view of a coward's island        
       
       
     I am the Arctic and Antarctic’s only one        
and its breaking me to know        
they are  no longer the horizon        
      by which i can navigate        
       
I've no means to board up the leaks,        
no foghorn blows: so let the crash happen