Buoyancy

Buoyancy

The water is murky below,

the out-swung trees watching

themselves shiver like girls at play- house

mirrors.

I get a queasy stomach sliding

among them over round stones,

looking down, afraid of falling, of

drowning.

The pain of fish is real, I know,

I see that one with aspirins for eyes undulating,

capsized between roots of cottonwood.

It did not drown, unless coming up

for air is a type of fish-drowning; if I had

gills, I wonder, would I be

so afraid?

On the bank, sudden flowers bloom

and fade and bloom again, and clouds

are racing and nights and days

are winking

and I am drowning for lack

of something, or because the surface

seems so far away I know I'll die before I rise.