Ever wonder why, lately, every single thing
reminds you of that one time you swam
halfway across Stillwater Reservoir 
in the Adirondacks: Blade by blade, 
your hands and feet shaving sapphire
marbles of water from your path, both
shores of safety so far from where you froze,
floating above a floor—a bed of silt, and bones,
and patient treasures—you could never reach,
and beneath the sky’s ceiling of endless,
shapeless clouds you would never name, 
life suspended in a decision, in a breath
held within your chest, and a captain’s voice
called—small, steady, ancient:
Keep going