Where was he going
All that time,
Plunging deeper
Toward dark water
Minutes from the light?
He must have known his chances,
Hazards of searching down
An inward spiral, looking
First for a faith in himself,
Then the religion of luster.
Known he might not return,
Struck with spasms,
How he might fade away,
Roll eternally over shells,
Reefs, sea valleys, moon passions.
Dead but still dreaming
Of the finest shape, weight,
A glow that only begins
Near the ghost coral towns
On the other side.
Christopher Woods is a writer and photographer who lives in Texas. His monologue show, Twelve from Texas, was performed recently in NYC by Equity Library Theatre. His poetry collection, Maybe Birds Would Carry It Away, is published by Kelsay Books.