In. In! Disbelieving, to that
Great grey furnace
Where our faces burned
Iced ached hot heads
Raging against the slapping waves.
We marvelled at our ash grey then
Unblushing blue toes,
The way our hands
Slowly closed, scorching
Wrinkled paper.
So we swam instead
Sometimes with fists
Laughing as if we,
Minuscule, could rage
Against the bitter smoke
In which we floated.