Gathering Watercress

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.