I went swimming once in Africa
to defy the water demons there—
bugs, hippos, worms and crocs, who,
(and this is true) do indeed fake it very well.
And as I dove in I thrilled then to think
“Hey Mr. Hippopotamus, where are you!?
Are you afraid to take me in your jaws,
to mix with me in my post?
Are you afraid to dance with me,
to roar me loudly home?
Come on Mr. Hippopotamus, where are you!?”
It all seems so silly now, I know,
yet there are times when cycling
when the sun starts pulsing through the trees
and the light starts dancing on the edge that soon
all I can hear is my muffled heart, in rhythm;
it gets cold and everything goes dark
and I start flailing to and fro
looking up and around
holding my breath,
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