Jonathan Scott


When the struggle ends
and the urge to reach the lighter blue—
above, below, beside—
is gulp-bellied and quiet,
he is utterly sure,
positive for the first time in his life,
that he will survive
death.
With that comes the calm.
Fish swim in gelatin, in wiggling arms
of refracted light.  The water
is air, is life liquefied, is cleaner
than the breath of mountains,
is filling his lungs.
A bubble floats from the darker blue
encompassing a world.
Strange continents
like an amniotic fetus
globulate within.
Guts and muscles relax.  He quits,
simply stops, and surrenders,
suspended between gravity and buoyancy.
He sees the candles lit for him,
the wreaths, and hears
the hoarse roar of the furnace,
feels it.  He swallows
then is swallowed by
the gathered spectrum—gone from here
in search of his survival.