All winter the water
has crashed over
the cold the cold sand. Now
it breaks over the thin
branch of your body.
You plunge down, you swim
two or three strokes, you dream
of lingering
in the luminous undertow
but can’t; you splash
through the bursting
white blossoms,
the silk sheets—gasping,
you rise and struggle
lightward, finding your way
through the blue ribs back
to the sun, and emerge
as though for the first time.
Poor fish,
poor flesh
you can never forget.
Once every wall was water,
the soft strings filled
with a perfect nourishment.
pumping your body full
of appetite, elaborating
your stubby bones, tucking in,
like stars,
the seeds of restlessness
that made you, finally,
swim toward the world,
kicking and shouting
but trailing a mossy darkness—
a dream that would never breathe air
and was hinged to your wildest joy
like a shadow.
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