Marco Di Caprio

I have sat too long, staring down a narrow path.
 I imagine myself swimming through polluted depths
 of oil, debris, and broken reflections.

My face dissolves in the mire.
 Then something shifts.
 Not water, but a cold metallic blue.

I sink, then I raise.

My body convulses,
 sound fractures,
 trying to become words.

Again the rhythm:
 sink, rise.