Rick Snyder
Relapse
The tide in your head recedes,
leaving smooth sands grooved
with prehistoric rivulets,
a child’s shoe, a few shells
lodged among the seaweed
and cellophane, a Capri Sun,
the gnarled spine of a small fish.
The fluid in your ears settles
to a dull roar not unlike that
of traffic several blocks away,
or a cello bowed so slowly
the performer’s hand begins
to shake, imperceptibly at first,
then more clearly, violently,
until the baton crashes down
and water swirls around
your ankles, hands, and chin.
You step back and dive in.