77. with each kilometre through the liquid, my ultimate sinking or flotation
i'm learning to walk again, like an olympian, with an iron will for a spinal column, i'm being pushed uphill, by the hands of my lover, i'm sleeping in a valley made for sleeping, by the pencil-thin waterfall made for falling, i'm aching in the light that captures mountains, in patches of shadow & contemplation, where saplings are soothed by mists & birdcall, i am called on to begin again, i'm walking along the edge of a clear blue bath, kicking the weights attached to my ankles, making anchor in a slab of sky over the water, i'm in number three lane of the blackheath pool, my arms curved forwards like swans' necks diving, my hands are striking fluorescent bubbles, goggles of fog across my cold blue forehead, made hard for ploughing fluid, i'm facing a cold world head on, with a face coldly rotating for air & sun, then night rises in its watery galaxies, mechanical & clockwise in its turning & i'm still swimming, in shots of fresh water along rippling black lines, until morning switches on the jets along its painted stretch, i'm filling in time by splendidly living, this cold shoulder is cracking above these lips pressed firm, at each high air lift & low blue water crossing, i'm contemplating my own success, with each kilometre through the liquid, my ultimate sinking or flotation |
