The water has magic. Despite
coarse sand or dull light—
each image composed
like a frame on a reel.
With sure strokes,
in the deep, he’s reborn.
In a still spot, he turns,
floats on his back.
Eyes shut,
he sees
the red webs of his eyelid’s vessels
and thinks of nothing—
time stops.
Limbs loosened,
shoreward, he drifts, or swims—
on swiftly swirling swells.
Grains underfoot,
his weight he now carries—
and his sins.