It's said that drowning can be beautiful
(…though the ones who said it were not the ones who had to drown).
The surrender, perhaps, to the arms of water

Shelley was gripped by—able to fly, but not to swim.
And this my bid to join the fellowship of the drowned—
more terrible than beautiful—these the fathoms striped

with a route-map of light, this my bicycling down and down
on the pedals of my feet with my arms thrown out wide
as if to steer through imploding water the velocipede

whose handlebars I tried to grip, but could not catch.
I was four, father, and washed too far from your reach
and I somersaulted several times with weed, with weed

around my neck, my feet, until you flashed me back to the light;
until you fished me out like a pup from the drowning bucket.