Almost One Hundred Years

Life is drifting down in slow white flakes, coasting the miles under the sea, white hot compared to the cold black iron lying on the undersea mountainside. All is quiet now, where the windows on the bridge caved in, where the hungry ghosts in gowns and tuxedos danced to the ragtime rhythms while the hold filled with water and the children looked toward heaven, where I pray that the hand of the ocean sands off the name from the life boats.... I can't ever read that name again without seeing Mr. Guggenheim dead, and Mr. Astor dead, and Ms. Brown barely alive, having broken the curse. Let the sun dry you, flames burning the roof of the tunnel,white canvas jackets bleached under springtime sun...