When finally Solomon would drop,
heavy as a scuba diver from a boat,
into sleep, the table fan keeping quiet
sentry over his body, he could dream,

practice the shallow breath of leaving,
push off the bed's earthly pitch, spit

his goggles and slip beneath the surface
of knowing. The tired weight of himself

left twitching against his wife. The bedroom
blinds breathing in perfect oscillations,

dawn-purple, cool, and slatted as gills.
When finally he could up-end himself,

kick away from this world, follow
the jade columns of light down

and down to the half-sunk mandible of reef,
all molar and bone, barnacle and neon,

he could play again, whirl his diminished body
in circles, the way he used to
tease the neighbor's dog into chasing its own tail.