To be buried in an ocean gray:
The red-lipped demands of a cocktail,
hypnotized the dawn toward which we set sail.
Onward! Forward!

With such vigor, bombs and powder,
on wax wings of what it meant to leave home
how could we ever doubt her?

Salted letters written by these men of sand,
written in anticipation of coming home to you
tempered glass copies made in this foreign land.

we're so close to diamond, but still left cheap
and fragile versions of the men whose fill
is shoes ten thousand leagues too deep.

The ground breaks for you: falling short, and falling still
free as paratroopers on the waiting lead hounds
of machine beaches -- last minute writings of our will.

Looking up, we saw only you:
our goddess, our silver lined chalice to pour draughts of dreaming--our halo--
it's easy to tightrope hell. should we return, our treasures cheap and broken,
just as easy as you could deny us--terrible finite things--just as easy as you could say 'no.'