The Wreck

By Don Paterson
 

But what lovers we were, what lovers,

even when it was all over—

the bull-black, deadweight wines that we swung

towards each other rang and rang

like bells of blood, our own great hearts.

We slung the drunk boat out of port

and watched our sober unreal life

unmoor, a continent of grief;

the candlelight strange on our faces

like the tiny silent blazes

and coruscations of its wars.

We blew them out and took the stairs

into the night for the night's work,

stripped off in the timbered dark,

gently hooked each other on

like aqualungs, and thundered down

to mine our lovely secret wreck.

We surfaced later, breathless, back

to back, and made our way alone

up the mined beach of the dawn.

Don Paterson, "The Wreck" from The White Lie: New and Selected Poetry. Copyright © 2001 by Don Paterson.  Reprinted by permission of Graywolf Press.


Source: The White Lie: New and Selected Poetry (Graywolf Press, 2001)