Passage
Like third-class,
he gazes from the dim hull.
Porthole; too near waterline,
bright world passing,
opening glass to breathe
may drown him
as, airless, he listens
to roar of days going by,
faint sound of lifeboats rusting,
well-oiled hum,
well-heeled sigh.
The deafening weight
of the disappointed,
the inaudible lightness
of the hopeful.
The orchestra and dancing above.
- Ralph Murre
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