I break the surface of the water, and wait
breathing the strange air, feeling my gills
heal over: my arms were so tired of being fins.
Of course, a man can drown
or be asked to pay back taxes,
which doesn't happen to fish.
But hands can grasp hands,
or the nobbles of a steering wheel, or
the handle of knife;
and fish, however calligraphic,
break down in the dotting of 'i's.
I will take this world of searing air
and the terror of sun,
the scrape of wind on the skin;
I will take the epithelium
of your lips pressed on mine,
I will leave the water
one time, one last time.