I am travelling through time
like a woman in a dunking booth,
plunging suddenly through decades.
Years swim before my eyes
with prying fingers,
pulling my mouth to pour themselves in.
Breathing water is like breathing air
except water builds a prison in your lungs.
It cages you in blue bars,
binds you in the mute confinement of stillness.
There is no protest, no reading of rights —
only the unfurnished cell and lampless dark.
Now I am immersed in the river
where I was desperate for you;
now I am rocked by the waves
of my drought-struck voice
unspoken in your room;
now I swallow the sweet lake
of all your aftermath.
These dead days rush through me as I fall.
I am as comfortable as a fish,
breathless in a sea
swarmed with outdated calendars,
peering up at the distant surface
with dated reservation.
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