In Quietness, Frogmen Make Tender The Deep

We don’t know anything about the oceans.
I can believe in multi-headed things again
and be thankful.

I can trust that the universe of acorns, saturated ruderals, and hurled curses near
the water’s edge sank and have blossomed on the seafloor, sprouted forests
slick spouts of mud-swelled gardens, and lost conversations. You can’t prove I’m wrong.

Like a lot of life, the human component in this is minimal. Water is immortal. Sand and rock are subducted into the earth at ocean-logged cracks, hiding the crimes of the surface. What’s true is less important than what’s believed. Oceans taught us this.

Are there deeply lit joys down there, benthic anglerfish? Are there seeds of hurricanes
and arcs, alien of origin, and all of my old coats,
piled in a stack? Do thermal vents whisper crisply one thousand miles away?

I understand that you have hopes, trench dweller,
and small victories, and fast moving currents to content with. The millionfish playground of my moroseness is swimming.