It will seem strange at first
going back under water,
            but soon your difficult breathing
            will feel like a birthright,
and you’ll settle down
to a more buoyant life
            where each step and each touch
            will be an easy impulse
to give in to. Your body
will discover old proportions,
             old whispered asides,
             sotto voce wheedlings
and basso profundo groans,
and even your angriest shouts
             will be dissolved in the wailing,
             the whistling and humming
of others who came back
to their senses. In place of speech
              you’ll have your exclusive silence.
              Now the dissolution of shadows
and the scattering of the sun
into ribbons and broken crescents
             will show what swims around you—
             diatoms, plankton, the suspense
of colloidal particles—
and will blur your vision
             momentarily
             into the visionary
and you’ll know why you’re here
why you’ve grown tired 
             of breath, earth, and sunlight,
             tired of your heavy torso
slumping. If you go back
to the glare and the wind, if you flounder
             ashore on the sand and lift
             your shape on surprising legs
and finally stand once more,
beached, weighted down,
             your strange nose in the air,
             you’ll find what’s left of yourself
sinking slowly, easily,
into half-sleep once more.