Antarctic Thaw

The ship leaves the coast
Baked under the sun:
The cracking white paint;
The rust tinted roast.

The frigate curves round
An iceberg-drained hill;
Container box crisp-
Every ton and pound.

The sailors all feel
Supernatural heat
Taking hold of their boat,
Strangle-holding the keel.

The boat won’t hold out,
They hope to stop this-
“Please, please, please don’t break”,
They pray to absent clouds.