Ça partira avec de l’eau. I dream
of you as if we’re still a couple,
though it’s twenty years. My unconscious deems
you that person in a drowned crowd of people,
content with the world that was. The fish-cats--
so rebaptized, the only word you thought
you knew, which came out back to front--
nibble my bloated feet. By now, I’ve learned
to live in both worlds, the seen and the submerged,
composed in my strange passé. Come in,
you’ll recognize the furniture, arranged
in a watery suite. What’s yours is mine,
what’s mine is yours--isn’t that what you said?
Your mind’s still here, adrift, floating inside my head.