The floor to the sea
is nothing like a table.
I'm reminded, looking star side,
how darkness builds like
voices in a stadium,
capillary, rushing,
demanding, wall eyed blind, and
in rising to the edges of sight
to collect above the eyes in a black lens
trending by single droplets toward downpour
where the distance of vision fades
to the material and tooth certain face and the threat of
night's moon deaf pressures scatter
hare like before greater and darker
shapes drawing near.
There are days I love
to swim
and settle to that plain.
And days I still fear
what little
light's absence
allows me
to see.
