it still sleeps intact, seemingly unscathed, its tapestries polished; it’s shape in form though the ship’s structures, underneath relentless paint jobs, underneath golden sheen underneath, broken
FICTION
ng b y
l n o pa . . s s i n g b y.
the bow was picked up, spun through the air though fell without embrace and left sailing into a visceral abyss; into quiet, into loneliness, into neglect
by . . . o si n ly pas
ly
the ship used to flirt; it danced and ebbed with rolling swell kissing the lips of each wave, caressing the nape of the tide
y pass i n g onl ..
s s a i n p g y l n b o y . . . .
‘only passing by’, its visitors say, in the morning
ng
the anger of imminent shipwrecks, and men overboard the tragedy of sinking, sinking solo
b y. . . 51
