Was thinking of Hemingway a lot today, his "iceberg theory" write more with less and kept reciting and reciting this poem in my head. I wrote it years ago on a cruise to Havana. Must have been the time spent in Hemingway's home there, the open water and flying fish, Havana and wishing I could still write poetry
Lo
you came through water like a dorsal fin
it was too much trouble
to keep your head above it
so you dove in and stayed
it's not the lack of air that's strange
but the silence
how it comforts you
and lures you further down
and when the sun beats through the surface
it's warmer than what you've ever felt from love
it's not absolution - being under
but it's home
(from my first book This is me since yesterday)
