Down nicked novabraids
connected to the skiff
we sink wide-lidded
into the element of love,
deaf, though not blind.
In this place speaking
is the work of signing.
Sometimes we sink too low,
almost brush the coral beds
with huge flat feet.
Other times, we rise
to the surface like balloons,
must dip slicked seal heads
so as not to break it.
It is too perfect to describe,
and I do not want to learn
the language. Let,
love, us have salt water
in our throats forever,
forget, almost, to breathe.
Let us not grow watertight.