Water Wheel
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Afraid of sleep
the child asks
for one more drink of water.
You hold my face between your two hands
as steadily as if I were a cup
about to spill.
Remember this morning how the ocean's edge
unraveled at our feet, tangling us
in its accidental lace?
You said we know what water is
although we never swim
in other oceans.
Sometimes I dream of sitting in a waterfall,
of letting it churn like white fur
over my naked shoulders.
It was fidelity you meant,
the stillness at the center
of the whirlpool.
The waves are taking
our island inch by inch,
an army that will overrun us soon.
You want a life
as simple as a cup
of rain,
but see
how my reflection wavers
even in this glass.
I think you'd throw cold water
in my face
to watch temptation out.
The waterfalls
of sleep tumble
over us.
I ask
for one more icy sip
of water.