It was the quiet kind of drowning.
The glimmering surface lay unaware
                      of the tossing just inches under.
It was the quiet beneath the quiet.
            No, the tossing just inches under

               the tossing. A tree branch scraping
        against the night's swollen lung.
A melody you loved echoing from
                       a lifetime away. Mist repeats itself
and becomes an underwater view.

      Bubbles. The small child of your breath
                      taken from you. There is no need
           to remember. Focus on the feeling
                      of floating. It will happen again;
it happens like time never inhales.





(The title is taken from Sappho's fragment 47, translated by Anne Carson.)