The Diver 08/08/03

He splits the water
like a wet lizard
breaking its egg, and rather than speak,
listens to the islands
of the Indian ocean
talking in waves, exchanging opal mounds
that burst open
on one another's sandy ears
and sock him in the mouth

He rides the loops
of their frequency like
a compass needle, feels the sun
as he climbs into the boat
and throws up over the side -
gives something back
to the ocean - a Nazi salute
or an old wound

His shoulders
wrestle their way
out of the wetsuit,
like oily stones slipping out of the shade,
like young aubergines

He slumps against
the bronze star of the anchor
and listens
to the islands
talking

bound to the sea
by a chain of wet spots