I watched an old nudist tonight
wading from the bank of the river,

his frail limbs the glowing white
of a hippo’s unsheathed member

and I had a vision of my death
transmogrified   

to   

a   

sort   

of   

hippo

the cold water stealing my breath,
sloshing closed across my torso

until I nosed through silty matter,
fringed stones rearing in the murk

and other hippos treaded the water
moon-rimmed upon the upper dark.

I thought about the loss of gravity
and a hippo’s slow tectonic grace

and dreaded the cold edge of clarity
and wind on the hollows of my face,

for cold nights always feels colder
when the air is drying on the skin,

and words carried across the water
can sound warped and indistinct

I   

do   

not   

think   

that   

I   

would   

float
and listen to our needful daughters

if I could seal my ears and throat
and grub the cold bed of the river,

like a nudist stumbling in a bush
tugging one leg into his trousers

at   

the   

first   

disturbance   

of   

the   

hush
by the snort and rustle of voyeurs.