what becomes wrong,
with listening to the water?
what phantoms really have hands
small enough
to grab through the spaces at our ankles?
i promise it will happen suddenly
the water colding your freshened body,
your hair feathering your vision
in the darkness, eyes making out the animals
that are too small to touch, and the clams
and rocks and shells cutting your skin
across your back, head, breast, fingers.
fearing more the death
of the sky you see through the surface
fuzzied and burrowed and lit perfectly
by the moon set low across the distance,
than the ending of room for you to breathe.
forget that you are drowning
and consider
the case of my containment
for a moment.
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