You don’t turn the Titanic around overnight.
You do not turn that boat around at all.
You steam ahead. The night begins to fall.
The women put on pearls, the men their white
dinner jackets. The band begins a light
quartet. Some fog descends. Some porters call
the captain to his private dining hall.
Some young boys down in steerage start a fight.
A year or two before near Disko Bay
a glacier’s seabound edge gave up some ice.
We had some warnings, which we didn’t heed;
we’d engineered ourselves beyond the need
for caution—now, as we break and sink, we pray
that God’s quite perfect judgment’s imprecise.