From the Puerto Rico Trench

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At night, I dream of oceans.

For some (I have been told) they are terrible –
Only dark premonitions of the grave,
Wet, wall-less sepulchers –
And they fear them.

Yet I in my sleep
Go home to the ocean.

At knee-depth I am at my back door,
The silver knob
Loose in my hand.
I encounter the floor
As I do my own –
Sand for oak,
The hand-laid sea tile
Of ten billion
Ancient creatures
Unified in their death
To bear my weight.

It is all so familiar
As the cobalt envelops me,
And my lungs quickly tune
To the salt-heavy taste
Of the water.

My eyes, though, take their time
To adjust –
They are partial to light unrefracted,
And grow impatient
With a lack of clarity –
But when they find themselves,
And this blue, shimmering world
Is before them laid open,
My heart is awakened
To the fathoms below,
And I, with a tremor,
See the faces of children
Welcoming me.

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