“Let’s go until we hit the rocks,”
you said with much confidence.
And like the talk
of a politician and the mock
of a lovesick boy
your words never meant much.
We ran too fast and we fell too deep
till we were bubbles that seeped
from ocean rifts but we
keep charging toward the cliff, as though
we know
we’re clouds full of breath and silver, as
if
the Big
Dipper would swoop down to scoop us
up into the sky
the ocean above our heads
and we’d be bubbles,
floating still up,
to where we were sure we
belonged.
(I'm turning this in tomorrow. I may be very proud of how this turned out.)