Shipwreck

Last night was
forty days,
not counting
counting.
The dark moved from dim to desolation
until I found
that small brown bottle
with the Seconal.

"Take two at night
with water,"
read the label.
I swallowed ten,
without.
The water gushed in
later,
turning God to Flood
and man to bait,
with no waking
except shipwreck.

At eight,
the alarm-clock siren
blared us from our bunks.
I closed my ears, but
morning was already
dressed and sitting down to breakfast
in full make-up.
Beneath the blankets
they were launching
lifeboats.
‘The sick and fragile first,'
the Captain barks.
I am neither.
I close my eyes
and jump
towards
the sharks.