July 8, (or, a response to the request that I stop writing poems about the ocean)

or love, death, or nature in general… 

 

Only five percent
of the ocean floor

is mapped.
The rest is unknown—

a deep subconscious
we crawled out of, once,

and return to
as foreigners,

except for the salt
in our blood,

and like some half
-remembered song,

our strange
capacity for floating—