If I stretched my arms out quietly, I’d become a living cross.

And once again we dug up the clear-edged
   dream-, or ice-quarry,

   The girl’s dark hair—
   hoarfrosted, powerless, luxuriant.

Night’s ending, time’s tearing.
   And the cross streets fuse together in twisted images.

You think of moving the captured submarine 
to a permanent berth alongside the museum
in your city. A retired engineer who spent