Dive-bomb

Swarming from ocean-green shadow,
          iridescent turquoise dragonflies gilded copper-silver
     —devil’s darning needles—
sewing together toes and fingers as we sleep, our eyes shuttered 
         “wool-white as sea foam”:
     boat people from Burma, Vietnam, Cambodia, Afghanistan—fleeing 
violence, human trafficking, repatriation and “waiting room” refugee camps, 
    to go to a Christmas Island—sail 
      through circulating gyres of microscopic pelagic plastics 
         —polymers, monomers—and chemical sludge from ports, harbors, 
      docks, marinas, storm drains, cargo ships, oil-drilling platforms, fishing vessels: 
a trash vortex not even visible to divers, much less the rest of us.
          Ocean of Being, we call it. No irony. 
          Magic enough to sell sea-salt aerosol hair sprays, MP3 of a single wave     
        crashing onshore, beach T-shirts capturing flotsam
from a live-feed of the Pacific. We cast ourselves out. Full of 
       voids, as The New York Times reports, predominantly lungs,
            which, when we free dive to 436 feet, collapse
by more than half: and when we rise,
      unable to absorb oxygen, suffocate ourselves. Atoms forged
in starburst we jump again into the Blue Hole. Sure
   that we’ll still be here as the planet cools, volcanoes cease,
         carbon dioxide falls, long before the sun burns down. 
We are so sure we bless ourselves in the waters.