Above me are warm bel­lies in the waves.
Above them are boughs of trees
I can’t name.
Below me are fin­gers of the dead.
Beneath them are the black dreams
of lost worlds. 

We are safe in these meters of sea
if we do not float to the sur­face
or sink to the bottom. 

Your moth­er, your father, your baby
grow­ing old in your arms.
I can’t hold you against the tide.