Icebergs behoove the soul — Elizabeth Bishop, ‘The Imaginary Iceberg’
Seeks ceaselessly a spectrum space, one third afloat
and flashing in the squawking skyworld,
sculptured spectacle, sailing bright white
spectre-ship, two thirds submerged beneath
what splashes on the skin, in stately counterweight
to being awake: blue realm articulate in creaks and cracks
and booms. Prussian, midnight, cuttlefish, forget-
me-not. Behoven to its own and constant re-assemblage.
What is the soul to do, if the icebergs melt?