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  • Disappearing under
    the cool ripple of her stroke
    laurels of aquatic plants
    divide their long tassels,
    separate sleep from shore.

    She has swum, too, in earlier dreams:

    Tiled pools, underground taverns,
    and secret, mountain wellsprings,
    where Grecian mosaics block
    the origins of life like a muddled mind,
    and where the sound of feet
    entering the blue water
    form echoes, other dreams
    from different dreamers she visits.

    But, I have seen her also, at the river Ganges:

    turning her face
    away from the dreamer,
    and letting go of lotus ships,
    their green palms cupping
    a fabulist's prayer,
    spinning itself toward paradise, lost
    amongst the infectious chatter
    of the other water-bourne blessings;

    cutting a trail
    through the river's brown life,
    whiteflower masts
    promise paragon sleep
    on the underside
    of the water's advancement

    --death's passport
    for the body.
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