The Diver

STEVEN SCHREINER

THE DIVER

Nothing breaks the cold surface. I crouch

to the oars and dip until the lake shivers,

the boat gliding through the black water.

Alone and losing sight of land

I know deep water by its sound:

a clock in a drawer. I turn the boat toward

the dripping trees and drift on black current.

A fine curtain of rain, light and quiet

starts to fall. The fish rise to it, hooked on new air;

a hundred greedy mouths, several hundred eyes,

attending

the music of rain. I go in and for a moment

the hand of water holds me up.

I try to relax . . . to imagine I'm at home in bed,

a handful of pebbles trailing from my hand, a feather

swimming in the air; a watery comb, as I go down.

Sooner or later, one misses the stars of home.

A billion blinking eyes are the sound of deep water;

and the steely turning of earth in its tipped room

in space.

In an hour, out of air, I will go up.