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You're 60 feet underwater
In a quarry in middle North Carolina.

At this depth, the UV rays don't reach.
You're swallowed by slate-blue haze,
Barely seeing inches in front of your face.

Your regulator's steady beat
Bmm Shhh—
The only noise.

Because voices don't carry,
When you're 60 feet underwater.

Every moment begins to feel the same.
Kicking your flippers, bright fuchsia streaks,
But the scene remains,
No matter how much your muscles strain.

The stark cold seeps into your wetsuit,
Itztlacoliuhqui's¹
prickling kiss against innocent skin,
Reminding you that you're real.

And your GPS changing claims to the truth
But the cerulean does not dissipate—
It prevails forever.

At 65 feet underwater,
You see a silver gleam.
An outline of a plane wing.

Wild brown algae have overcome it,
Draped in fuzz, the metallic still shows.

And you wonder
How did the plane,
Wings hand-crafted for soaring
Ever sink so low?

Footnotes

1. Itztlacoliuhqui is the Aztec deity of ice, cold, and punishment. ↩