The temptation is real – the impulse to fall, to plunge.
Mirador shift on the Rig, observation duty,
across solid water, months since mainland and solid earth.

Such unhinged visibility lacking swell, chop or horizon lines,
the sky, its ecstatic cloudlessness is a Xerox of the sea.

I’ve heard of the high place phenomenon, the fervid urge
to jump from buildings and bridges. That could be me.
Here, in this remote outpost, I’ve seen colours, inexplicably

trippy, sizzle at the peripheries of sight, jellyfish pearly
as clairvoyant balls bubble to the surface after colossal weather.

This is where astronauts might condition for the solitude of deep space,
beyond all jurisdiction the panoramic blue, composed and alarmingly
calm; a blue I’ve only found in your eyes’ irises. I’ve been gone

so long and you’ve yet to blink, there’s no current to take me,
to drag me adrift. Dear God: the blueness. Pretend I don’t exist.