Icebergs

Icebergs calve, plop and bomb.
Great sheets of arctic pain—
metaphors, forever lost. The
polar bears just stand there,
in mid-air, then drop. White
water dreams after Greenland,
or was that Hell. Whatever.
It’s a bit of a stretch but if
they can tow one to Belfast
then why not here? For some
reason, Hitler comes to mind.
I’m no longer involved. Ha!
Sitting here, my new wife and
I, on the icebreaker’s deck.
There’s a novel in my drink,
an icy cliffhanger. Whatever.
Rubbing my cheeks with whale
fat. Where the hell did that
come from? Nick Cave’s in my
cabin, with the fever. Here
come the northern lights, a
stadium in miniature bathed
in signal flares. My wife’s
a rose and I’m malt whisky.
Arranging deckchairs, etc.