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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.



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