They are waiting in an ice cold
puddle. A globe of jelly
holding life. The black dot
looking like an alert pupil
taking in the sky, the horizon.
Their shape a disturbed
pulp of honeycomb. A waif
on a stony path that licks
the thighs of a mountain range.
The dropped cargo ready to leap
into the unknown. I hold mine
back, not knowing if it will
suit my submarine journey.
In Between Hangovers 