A lava line around the neck,
Thrust from the seabed: drops of jet.
Their lonely births are fire and rock,
Are isolated slips of blood.
Those eyes: the brightest black on Earth –
Whose depths we fill with shallow hopes –
Inhuman, but within each one
A loss so great it is our own.
These islands we behold as birds –
Too far away, too bright to know –
Perceived as wondrous specks of light
Within the ocean blank of life.
They stare a question from our soul:
Are we alone or are we whole?