We’re a triangle tangle and snare. The moon

is to our left and we are a wreck on the shore

of modern depictions of love. In the harbor

you say that you’re on one ship, or on another

cruise or you’ve been on that tug boat for a half hour

because your tour got stranded on the island

seen on a horizon. These are the things people say.

It makes sense in the context. Later on I have to

explain that I’ve only ever swum and everyone looks

at me like I’ve just torn my face off. This is how it goes.

Water isn’t something you get into on purpose. It’s the

thing holding up the metal canisters people board.

No one notices the air outside the aeroplane. We’re all

just the dried apricots in your handbag enjoying their

environment of transportation. But swimming is the

way light filters underwater. It’s the feeling of

breathing after holding it in through too many strokes.

It’s your body as a long piece of string. Under water

I am transformed into a dream of myself long held.

I can’t explain it to you if you can’t explain yourself

to yourself. And in fact I’ve read the dictionary and

there aren’t any words to say that I want to lie in

the grass and hold your hand.