No one can tell you what you can’t see under 
until you’ve been under there yourself—

Icebergs, for example: pristine rising up, 
an ice so old and thick it smells like ammonia. 

Below, the stove that keeps us warm 
totters on the brink.  Gas fumes pour into our rooms.

Nothing to do but rise to the surface for air.
Our heads pulsing—

As snow falls, I pace the deck 
and mark the dream with braille of footsteps. 

Dwarfed by oilskins and boots.  Night inks my orbit.  
They say, It hasn’t even begun to get cold 
Snow powders the deck.  When I look up

– between squalls and clouds – 
six jewels of the Southern Cross. Sharpen.