1
Deer stands by the highway,
blue mist and bare trees,
winter-downed fields
standing up with water.

     2
You've seen the brown water of Greenwood,
green of the Isar, Yadkin's yellow,
white turned black at neaptide,
blue of every motel pool
from Raleigh to Atlanta and back again.

     3
Three-quarters of the earth's surface
is covered with water, two-thirds of our bodies,
sixty percent of memory: water saved
in bottles, buckets, barrels, leaky cups of hands.

     4
A boy thrown into water over his head
settles to the bottom, dreams the shore
before him, walks until water falls away clean.

     5
Red stain of river on your hands,
in enamel bowls worn to metal,
sodden quilt of bottom land,
tears, sweat, scissored veins,
swimming images of days
we kept swearing were better.

     6
We can say nothing of first water,
a body we know so little about,
a tadpole swimming in a lonely pool,
born into light too bright to bear.

     7
Rain poured from dark mouths
of clouds, pelting wet faces,
blue pulse of sky burning.
We stood before storms,
dared to be the last to turn.

     8
In winter there is water everywhere,
appearing between trees
like sidelong glimpses of memory.

     9
North Sea floats luminescent
with swollen heads of jellyfish,
water too cold for swimming,
sand rooted with hands.

     10
We use water to thin the blood
from the carpet, nowhere near as thick
as we imagined, coming out as easy
as Kool-Aid, as clear as truth.

     11
At night dreamscapes of memory
flood your eyes with cater-colored
images of a half-drowned world.

     12
This year you return to Waves,
your son learning to swim beneath
or dive over white crests, his swift,
sure hands calming the water without fear.

     13
Walking on water is easiest at sunset,
the water dark and still
and reaching towards you like an open hand.