Longing of the surface reaches even
Waters deep, little troubled bubbles which
Through lightless horrors creep, to
Find a yearning current crushed by all
The sea its underneath, to raise it up from
Breathless dreams the lunged creatures
Gasp for in their sleep. And though it's
Sick with salt at thought of sweetness,
Like a felon at the oars, whatever deeps
It dredges up may never see this brilliant
Sun of yours. And so while drawn to light
Of day from dark and weedy floors,
It trembles at the privilege but to touch
Your once-warmed shores, and ripples
Under moons who merely mirror heaven's
Scores, and offers awful ink-stained prayers
That it may surface one night more.