by Gideon Burton
The bait of sleep, the worm and hook of rest,
and so I dive and deeper dreaming dive
to pressured blackness, cold and yet alive.
My body to the sandy bottom pressed,
I breathe the salt in sluggish waves.
Descending yet, pretending there is sense,
with swollen hands I part the liquid, dense.
And nothing does, and everything behaves
as though some waking order gently rules.
A manta ray swims blithely through my skull,
and charging over coral comes a bull.
These mortals are, they say, such waking fools.
Comes morning, trances break in foggy rays,
yet linger ocean beds and endless waves.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - mattk1979