a submarine or plane; occasionally airborne, occasionally dripping with water. the showers are to be dismantled. they can be sold easier that way. taking a break, we sit with our small heels bouncing off the steel, vibrating above a cream and cyan wake. the waves are white noise. there is a short chat about the state of things, but it is mostly silence due to our understanding. nothing can be done about it. a view of the water puts me in a trance, i cannot remember.
I take a photo with the film camera and think about how cold and early it is, the thinking lends itself to the feeling, but never quite the other way around - I feel awake in Frost’s world of hoary grass and try to put the lines together:
winter sleep on the night, scent of apples: I am drowsing
off. cannot rub strangeness from my sight got from looking glass morning drinking trough held against hoary grass. melted, let it fall and
the girl next to me also looks out - but she is only me from a moment before. we retreat inside to find the others still afraid. everyone is salvaging cargo or holding heavy burlap sacks in a way that feels like it could be a choice, it could be important, as if there could be something to be done about it. always making our way on to the next unsinking ship. many hulls are cut open, but physics plays with the water, they never sink until we make our way to the next.
dream static, a forest, my own breath startles me as it fades into the evergreens. i am running in the early morning, my boots treading hoary grass, the horizon still dark. the last aircraft is leaving and i know most everyone will be left behind. I reach the craft in time, the first of few before a huge wave of others. they ask me if my parents were human - “did they make themselves?” - I say yes and they lift me inside, their strong hands hurt my underarms as i am pulled up, something i remember being resentful about in childhood.