we come to water even when we know
we have good tap at home and the sprinklers
are preset to distribute a half-inch of water
to the new peach trees every two days
late in the evening so their leaves don’t scald
we come to water in board shorts
and sun-bleached t-shirts, underwear
and a sports bra that looks like a bikini
from far away in case it gets warm enough to swim
we come to water with ham sandwiches, and water
bottled from a spring somewhere
down in the Everglades, shipped to Eureka
Springs, Arkansas, famed for the healing
powers of its waters
we come to water as we are sixty percent water
and water sticks to water through the force
of cohesion: little charges seeking their inverse,
always bonding, breaking away
we come to water even though the dam won’t hold
through the next big rainstorm,
the hand-cut stone pillars already
bloated like a beer belly just wanting
for one more drink to burst
we come to water even though the sign says not safe
for contact or drinking; because to be near the water
is a holiday, a picnic lunch, a lazy afternoon bass,
a child held by water wings, learning to swim