Thunder and the Boat

we're lying,  
resplendent  
as corpses  
on the deck  
of our boat,  
staring into 
the folds of 
the universe's  
moth-eaten 
cloak, fingers 
stained pink  
from the cold.  
iconoclast 
could become 
a form of  
iconography 
as thunder cuts 
another hole 
in the sky.