it lives in memory, briefly,
between one want and another want
 voice and hearing
  the thought to step, and the feeling of stepping:
the silence
or near silence, or distance from sound

Then: whitman's song is behind you
the words garbled like muttered sex

or television through a door

a thrum in which the sounds of voice
are found and lost
and doubted

standing, in that stillness, listening,
 one can see the black water
and how still it is.
 Imagine the depth of it
and the coolness

fish, bright at the surface, snatching at bugs,
throw off the light,

 return to dark places

because there is no way under the face of the waters
but into the waters,

because the dreams one has had
are tied to other words
and those words are faint