To hold the limits of the stars
Is impossible: measure them.
Or, it’s easy: imagine them.
I’m the shipwreck with spectator,
Dreaming that I’m the spectator
Of the shipwreck that I’ve become,
That the spectator spots sinking
Beyond the limits of the stars,
Thinking, glad I’m not on that ship!
My timbers, at least, less solid
And of lighter matter than most,
Might float, might find themselves ashore,
Well-scattered for the beachcomber
To gather and nail together
And add on to his fishing shack,
Where he keeps his wrack and tackle,
His toilet-paper almanac,
And my tattered family bible,
All of my ship’s library left
That he found, all my rarities
Sunk, damned evil inheritance,
Onionskin thin pages sandy
And curled but mostly legible,
Far from the limits of the stars.