25. dreaming of water i. cavern yellow niches of limestone hide water stains. the ceiling drips like orange slices, squeezed. a dark pool collects droplets, absorbing splashes into its tarry face. water leaves out a hidden river, drawn by gravity. humidity hangs between air molecules. it is like the weather in some parts of the world, where water presses heavily against the lungs. until the simple act of breathing, aches. ii. refrigerator all night i hear the rush and gurgle of water twisting through curled tubes of the cold box. the faucet is running. i get up to fix it, but no water pours down the metal sink. i fall asleep. later, the sound babbles that i forgot some important task. awake, water courses behind a white door. every second asleep, water runs away. iii. womb water carries the scent of amino acids and nutrients, swaddling and a cradle, the sound of the sea heard from a distance. weight has a lighter sense here. periods of sun and dark alternate, as in the larger world. during the day, networks of curled blood vessels streak the nearby walls, moving oxygen to and fro. i am rolling, on a journey destined to end upon reaching the canal to the new world, washed from wet caverns into a room, full of refrigerators.