Sodden.

Water should be of more comfort
When your ship is on fire.

Flames slap trace paper shapes and frame
The outer edges of your vision.

Pale dry wrinkling, wringing – young – hands
Clutch, lace, wring, wrinkle
Inverse to amber love
Closer to gold but more so to red
In their clutch,
Clutching the magnifying glass of your mind’s sky’s trouble.

Nothing’s ever so bad though.
Not here.

The fire runs out of oxygen -
A mere spark, a microcosmic Sun.
And respiration is a pleasure once more.
Clutch rehydration under the Sun.