The submerged moraines call to me this night
promising the freedom of the hills.
They sing to fall down, down, down
but I wouldn’t know if I was up or down
lying in a meadow of seaweed
at planktonic twinkles.
One foot on the railing
I look to the hills
then the foaming abyssal maw.
Will I be released, or captured?
There are no absolutes.
Only the mountains
and the water.