“What’s water but the generated soul?”
William Butler Yeats
The soul was taken
by surprise, plunging
into that glassed-
in pool in February,
dysthymic, hyperthymic,
sex-crazed, hypomanic,
money-throwing,
neurasthenic
soul
rattling in its
cage, in its
blankets and heaters
and down
quilts, wrapped in
layers of flannel
and wool, wearing socks,
a fleece hat.
It plunged into
the pool
under the cold dripping
roof, the mauve
sky walling it in,
making it echo,
hit its edge
against the air’s
steel wool, mohair.
Like the last stage,
batting around
in this daytime
twilight,
ricocheting off
the glass wall.
I can find
it in a pan
of water. It drips
from the roof
as in a hot house,
the world
of exotic flowers
steaming,
their grave, erotic
faces frozen
open. … Bird striking
a glass enclosure,
wall of slate
falling back down.
First
you take the walkway
from the other building,
flaps of plastic on
either side,
freezing concrete
on your bare feet,
the stiff glass door. In
the cold, soft
air, it doesn’t
want to get
its feet wet, its
body either, without
its glasses, the world
is smeared
with Vaseline, the
air is
gray, the water
blue-gray,
the children hardly
visible,
have to hold the little one
tight,
up and down the pool,
wiggle
wiggle the legs,
it’s cold,
the black cloth of your
swimsuit getting wetter
and wetter, taking
on water.
This is the soul’s
element;
this is what
you carry with you.