Their robes cling to them as they submerge,
giving them the appearance of unusually godly torpedoes.
From their practiced throats, come tiny notes encased in air
as light as devotion.
this choir, like all instruments of deity,
is subject to that old bugaboo, the same one that always comes along:
The deeper they go,
the less those on the surface understand
Originally written in 1980 as part of a series of poems I wrote in reaction to having read Russell Edson's "The Wounded Breakfast." I have rewritten it today for the prompt at Toads.
He said, "All men shall be sailors then, until the sea shall free them." --Leonard Cohen