There’s ecstasy in the moment one quits kicking;
when tension blanches from the body.

One becomes a flaccid mass, dragged through white water.

One feels the gravity diminish in the dips,
but — unlike rolling into an undertow —
one is always violently righted.

One’s head bursts above water —
gasping reflexively.

One survives like the stumbling drunk who tumbles down a staircase —
only to murder by dislodging a sober person from the penultimate step.