My hunger for freshwater is obscene.
I wake writhing from a dream, reaching
though dry sheets for a handful of it;
for the cold, crisp splash of the glassy surface
on my palm, around my ankles, then
caressing my cheeks, cradling flesh.
The embrace of lakes will always satisfy
more than any other, for there
one can return to the womb,
folding in among the reeds and fishes,
moving without the thrill of gravity,
kicking out from the sand into the great,
cool, center of the world.
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