Iceberg

There’s always been
ruin under the surface

of the waves, chambers
of your bursting heart

ready to sing the eerie
calving song of too much

friction, a thing torn
by itself until nothing

remains to hold it still
together. You can run,

push your brittle engine
to its heaving limits

— but like shadow always
the versions of yourself

remain, multiply. At bars
and in business meetings

you introduce yourselves
and it takes hours to list

each flavor of soul. The task
of enumeration is endless,

and in the midst of it
you notice yourself shrinking

down into the endless ocean
as night gets always closer,

icecap melting like some kind
of inescapable disaster.