Often I dream of fetuses:
sentient, amazed at the prospect
of soon having new material to work with
when they themselves dream.

Of their aborted kin they say nothing,
understanding that sometimes,
dreams are not meant
to come true.

They focus instead upon
the dark ocean
that is all they know.
They don’t care for discussions

of genocide or choice, see
such topics as issues for a less
all-encompassing world. 
Particulars, they say; details

we don’t care to address
until we’ve gotten out and lived a little
and had a chance to understand
the meaning of the word “dichotomy.”

If the ones who did not have a chance
to make it to that point were here,
they’d likely say the same.  But they’re gone
and that’s that.  We don’t know about them,

say the fetuses. 
Wherever they’ve gone
they’re probably waiting for their own moment
of emergence, and like us they probably don’t see

the point in debating
the merits of life versus death.  That’s an issue
for later. We’ll let you do the fighting while we float
and until we’re out of here somehow, assume nothing

of what we would say if we could speak.

Snow falls to the ocean
and vanishes,
like the line between
sky and sea.

Division, an illusion;
all is water.

I’m on the beach
and that seems a hard line,
but then I see water oozing
from around my shoes.

When the mountains rose,
they were sea-floor. 
When a fault
splits with a dark rumble,
ground water fills the gap.

I’m the guest here,
full of water.  I’ll melt
eventually and release it all.
When I am part of the sea,
the great water,
it will be unremembered
that I ever was separate,
that I ever participated
in the illusion.