Jaromír Typlt

But you’re just mimicking water
as it scoops you up.

And so water-levels mutually compare
their elevations above sea-level
and you’ll glimmer somewhere there briefly
like a puddle who never pays back
with the same coin.

You won’t even hide behind the rain anymore,
rain that got stuck in volcanic ashes,
freshly paleozoic
until the moment somebody unearthed and cleaned it,
cutting off the sparklingly strewn
narrow layer,
carrying it over within your reach and glassing it.

For such a moment
your whole body would gladly ripple.

But even as such you wouldn’t be more than
water rising upwards
in order to look around the surrounding waters,
trying underway
to fill in, to break, to grip,
to knock the waves off with a fist.

Remain, if you like, in your state
of a slight turbidity on the bottom.

If you duck enough down there
you still have the hope of becoming
an immersion heater.