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.
Tangle and Snare
1 December 2013