AUTOPILOT
“Vada a bordo, cazzo!”
Sank in the shallows
actually needed
more water to
make a good job of it
the sea sparkling
Champagne clear
nothing wine-dark
about it
and yet without question
still the lair of Poseidon
and he in charge, at the helm,
somehow abstracted, too
pressed uniform
for any hero’s journey
everything analytical
set
to pause, cruise
control selected for
vital and most critical
falling like Pantaloon
by sheer outrageous luck
into first seat in
first lifeboat
skew serendipities:
disaster sloshed out of
its amphora
as superrich cocktail
and no
tripartite structure: beginning middle ending
rushing
like an express train
(where
there is a will there
is a way and
rudder should find it)
catharsis — this the thing
if we are chosen to survive
we may well talk
about later
hubris: most brutal, un-
forgiving of our flaws
always available
to shoulder the blame.
poems 2 die for 