The coast of Bonaire like a desert,
as we pull three scuba tanks
from the trunk of a VW Thing,
three friends with an appointment
with a sea turtle waiting offshore.
Under the ice at Tobermory,
rising from the deck of The Sweepstakes
to a luminescent ceiling
formed by bubbles trapped overhead.
Century-old bottles and stoneware
rescued from a river bottom
that sometimes felt like home.
Sharing my regulator with a careless diver,
out of air before reaching
the hull of The Cedarville,
eighty feet down in the Straits of Mackinac.
A three hundred pound anchor on my lawn,
a quarter-mile from its former resting place
at the bottom of the Niagara River.
Sharing this passion with my son
on his first open water dive.
their sum contained
in relics collecting dust
and pages seldom read.