it’s not the wreck of the Deutschland

it is the wreck of myself.

In this unwelcome solitude I can do what I want.

I don’t, of course,   wish to meet the

fate of the cursed steamship

that embarked from Bremerhaven

heading for New York only  to

end up wrecked on the Kentish Knock

that merciless night.

Maybe I am getting erratic

having been reading Gerard Manley Hopkins

every night.

Rather, I am the man dying from internal combustion.

“Soon after the news of the disaster had broken, the wreck was raided by men from the nearby coastal towns,” (quoting from Wikipedia)

But fall night, time is holy

Aber fällt Nacht, heiligt’s die Zeit