Proposal Unto Disposal

Decay in the earth of all living things.

Just not here,

where the cold keeps the flesh safe,

maybe not from those ravenous beings,

but from the hot, liquid melt of dead tissue.

Bones crunch and splinter, teeth grind.

Eyes sharp as the fangs.

There is a cold wind.

The tattered sails flap, hoping to gain the wind’s favor to return

home, or some place that would not eat it alive.

A mast is a structure, a vital piece.

Without it, there is no movement, no hope.

But buried in ice and wedged between glaciers,

it is sad, so terribly sad.