Snorkeling Crystal River

Down here people become soft
bullets. Vessels stare at you
without words
and know something:
how your face becomes alien
while approaching the break
of water, trying to steal that minute
chasm between us and choice,
what makes breath interesting
but never meaningful.
You might hold the tide’s hand
but you’ll always be wearing
a glove, chipping away
your own noise as you
swim through a medium
which fights to hold you
in place.

If it wasn’t our fault
none of this would be different.

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