Anchorite Sailing through Night

It’s enormous and cold,
And you’re small, but your goal
From your launch was to go.

No human lives beyond
The edge of the human
World, but enough come close,

And cling to the farthest
Edge they can reach, gripping,
Dangling by their fingers,

So to speak, and ready
To retreat to the skin
Of their teeth, if they could,

That you have to suspect
There’s something to living
At the bow of the boat.