The shape of the eye and the cowardice Poem by Ann Cotten

Leap through the Styx, a quicksilver
curtain, an advance, a breakfast.
You close your eyes and pierce the surface of the water.
Now you are in another world. Like words,
you notice, designating down here as well:
relations, spaces and stones, covered with algae, full
of desire, forgiving everything; the word fish
comes into its own here. Only to you, as you know. Bitter
to remember how dry the land and how feeble your terms are
but you may speak here, make wonderful bubbles.
Eye in eye with the algae on the horizon of wet, near,
someone has stroked back your hair without your noticing.
The coots look clever, like conductors of orchestras.
Someone shows your skin where it begins. To dissolve
your skin is willing and ready anytime. Carry her away soon.
Before, dive below once more, push your eyelashes up,
yank open your eyes: You see you see,
what you are unable in bubbles to call world or environment.