On a day rain softens
until there is no air only water
I take off my clothes
and go naked into the garden
a water man among water trees
water shrubs water flowers
the green frogs too are water
jays and doves are water goldfinches
flash like light reflecting in water
the houses of chipmunks and snakes
by the pond are water
in a world of water
fish swim on the underside of water
only the woodchuck under the shed
a bureaucrat snuffling over papers
a poet with black eyes is dry
after drought even the fish dance
when we kiss when you take me
into your mouth when I take you
into mine the bee is inside the rose
the rose entirely humming
the child emerges headlong
from the humming waters of the mother
from her viscous parting
heart gills shut forever wet mouth opens
takes the mother in omphalos rush
still ringing in his ear canals the sound of rain
sister to a thrush’s song at evening
over and over repeating inside and out
whip of the hummingbird’s tongue
at courting apogee of pendulum
turtle’s cracked mud eyes wet again
I cannot tell on which side
of water skin between us I am.
This article appears in Jul 12-18, 2006.
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