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Totally Under the Water

He knew, he said, he was dying
when for two straight weeks he dreamed of 
trying to switch on a swing-arm 
lamp that wouldn’t switch on. In baths 
I’ve never gone—as they do in the movies,
to demonstrate crux and contemplation— 
totally under the water, but if 
I did, I would ponder the woman
flooring it into the cinderblock 
wall from fifty feet away. I don’t think that image 
comes from the movies. I think it comes
from the future. The future, with its color
palette of airport whites and its 
unrushed glance, its involuted 
beckoning. I see it. I can see it. At least
somebody wants me.




This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.

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