Bubble rings like misplaced
angel halos arise within
my teardrop from tiny
scuba divers the size
of pinpricks swimming
about aimlessly with salt
coating their masks,
and high on painkillers.

There is an indigo ripple in my eye,
sending me backwards through time
on cresting waves that roll into themselves
Tightened by their energy,
these droplets form ropes
that flay my memory

Where I sit is not my chair
but on my bones stacked up my back.
The me is from shoulders down for air,
chin up for sight and speech.
Though toes curl the chair legs
for balance, my feeling is, has always
been, that life is in my hands.

Teddy carries what he deems of importance
In an old trolley cart padded with terry cloth.
He holds congress with Johno and Frank
And two other silent boys in the town circle.
Their guitar looks nice on you
It is a rare occasion—
So you sing for them.

I deserted a place labeled as a home,
with outlets popping out from their cables,
an oven that I needed to light manually,
and a floral couch that creaked no matter the weight put onto it.
I still have that picture of you resting softly,
sinking into the cushions,
with a long tear at the top

The naval admiral’s shallow body
Is smaller than I imagined
Underwater
In the nucleus of a nuclear submarine
Elusive to then Soviet fish spawning
On the sides of a metal ship