"The Swimmer"
the cold sunlight strained through muslin:
a choked back utterance of light.
Your morning cup of tea has cooled
in my hands, so absorbed
was I, in watching you sleep, that I forgot
to wake you. In another scene, the sound
of waves thumping the shore, we're both awake, focused
on the other's lit face, a candle gleams
between us. The tea is jasmine this time.
Steaming. My hands are white and slender, reaching back
and forward through time. I'm a swimmer
uncertain of my own buoyancy, and so, trapped
in ceaseless movement to stay afloat.
Time is green and turbulant, like tea whisked
from fine powder. I'm always left surveying
the room as it drains away,
and you with it as the next surge
of limbs carries me forward, back.
No matter the room: basement flat, cafe, caravan,
the furniture always smells like damp earth,
or bergamot. And you, forever waking,
waking. I pull myself up in a succession of dim scenarios
holding lukewarm liquids like a failed stove,
my white flame flickers like milky arms
carrying their cargo through relentless seas.
© 2008 Dave Rowley
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