by Mary Oliver
All winter the water
has crashed over
the cold the cold sand. Now
it breaks over the thin
branch of your body.
You plunge down, you swim
two or three strokes, you dream
of lingering
in the luminous undertow
but can’t; you splash
through the bursting
white blossoms,
the silk sheets — gasping,
you rise and struggle
lightward, finding your way
through the blue ribs back
to the sun, and emerge
as though for the first time
Poor fish,
poor flesh
you can never forget.
Once every wall was water,
the soft strings filled
with a perfect nourishment.
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