sailing through twenty oceans of
financial insecurity.  We wept as we hauled
bricks across the shore, condemned to our fate as coolies.
As insects, bent legged and homing in the mudflats.  We
ended up in the cold mire of bog water
Where the rhythms of icy silence pulsed all things rotted and forgotten below the water's surface
I gripped your hand until the cold forced you under.  I called your name:  Jack Dawson!  I love you
and i love you more than short guys love big cars
you know what i meant with that, didn't you?
no, there were ten clay boats
and twenty clay oars
lead boots, and a grand tour of the Caucuses
in which my pale skin's responsible party was first  glimpsed
enumerated and porous, its hive simple in passengers
whose heads flew off, seatbelts unbuckled at the knees
& everything expected keeps happening.