Caitlyn Christensen

C a i t l y n  C h r i s t e n s e n

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Titanic, Lusitania

Lord, give us the unhurried detachment of mirrors. A vein much deeper than fascination attached to—of the aura of significance—of one another. The faint grinding general alarm.

Moments of panache, detachment, arrogance. Where you go I go, wrapped in a shawl. If given to larger interpretations, we would have known to issue an SOS. Adoring, you root in depths. If I were a cavalcade, a small wonder, the largest moving object ever made, I would be called splendid, far more haunting, all two-and-a- half miles drenched in mud.