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{*DIVERS*} sara croft steptoe A Lazarus of the sea, the white moon rises, ticking in the hearts of its tribes -- the ray gliding like an ancient jet, the eel in its cave, the slow whale. We come for gravity's floating cradle while tides mark the depth of our misery -- the nourished grave, that man who said the earth is flat, the ones who believed. We come to find the wreck we never find, to make a circle in the circle of oceans, to steal treasure from silent ribs and swim away unharmed. Instead we come to the end of breath. Rising faster than our bubbles we cramp and twist. Always five feet from the surface we drown. |
