Gathering Watercress

Bink Noll

Like a glove. Molecules vaporized,
cloud-gathered, rained down, drained through earth ducts,
massed in this spring where, up to the wrist,
I ache in the seamless stuff. I hold still.
Indeed, can I claim I feel water?
It is caught in the law of being
stable, uniform, serene. Without
hue. Without taste. Without temperature
of its own it covers and shocks my hand
with its mineral indifference.
Not like a glove at all. Like the hand
of a dead man not holding my hand.