When you surface, take care,
cause first you will face a facade,
a stockade meant to secure you
against any raising. Be safe,
pause your face for a second,
strike lightly your nose to the glass.
It’s a farce. An illusion
like flying saucers, crop circles
or the master race. Sure,
this life may seem farer
with its cars and faucets,
its miracle cures. But the ruse
makes it a cruise below water,
below deck. The gates are locked.
When you come up for air
all you will breathe is fear. Raise
again, lightly. It can not stand
the tapping. And the surf
and the wonderful air
are close. Right up there.