how odd that I want to reach way down deep into surface-smiling eyes, into the dark pools, reach for something that I don't know is there, that I don't know is, I don't know what.

I can't do it anymore. Once, when young, I had strength to dive down into dark pools, to rescue by force whatever I sought beneath the sun's reflection and the light and dark murk and the sea grass.

not no more; I have no strength for swimming, no breath for diving. Or maybe these only left with my faith in my limbs, which in those days could find their way without thought.

Maybe now I wait for someone to dive beneath my eyes and know me; take my load for a while. But if someone asked me why are there flecks of green-gold sadness in those eyes, I'd say i dunno.

it's not hard, just breathe deep while thinking of something you love. Like sky, or horses or areoplanes. Imagine your breath combing its way into the world, then inhaling the world back into you, your lungs full of sky and seagulls.

Keep it there, right there, in the place where you shine when you think of something you love, and plunge.

Whoosh of all that is in and of me wraps around you, not cold, but thick, thick, and dark. The magic is in your fingers-- even though you do not know what you reach for, you must know how to hold it.

That was the mistake I always made. I always ripped my treasure back to the surface, and when it was broken, o god how it hurt, farewell.

I forgot where the magic lies, where the music comes from, first touches that burn like glances wish to.

how (never where) to look for nothing in a dark pool and show it to the sun.

back. . .