drowning by swimming
Far above your conscious, a bird beats its own wings,
on its own way,
to its own destination.
A sharp gust slices the air—still not catching you in its breeze,
but it’s enough to cool to the bird,
and release a feather.
It drifts down, falling mile by mile,
traveling mouth by mouth,
assumption by assumption
to your lake.
It’s a nice lake. Man-made.
It only goes so deep, so wide, so long,
and so do you.
The feather shatters the azure surface,
in doing so it glides just ever so slightly, below beneath you’re peace of mind.
Then you’re flooding because you can’t contain yourself,
and you’re chocking and clocking me,
waves rocking the shore,
feather floating above still.
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