In a mosaic of waters, sometimes I guide the undertaker’s cock inside me to flood the river, where my legs go to sleep as the undertaker gazes at the cemetery searching for creatures of midnight out the funeral-parlor windows of the blue-whale. Inside the enormous creature, nostrils are windows. After wrapping up another wake for the drowned, the undertaker wears a snorkel mask hiding an odyssey of larvae. We swim among drowned divers, death walkers. Using fingers and tongue, I lick the damned. The weightless undertaker and I are dancing, interweaving, intertwined with his obscene snorkel rising through the mermaid’s wineglass, where my legs are going to sleep as my eyes glimpse underwater mountains beyond deserts of the ocean. As a diver, I keep burrowing deeper into shipwreck lairs, always thinking there’s a way to go back, that there will be enough time and a chance to ascend, to break the surface once more to breathe open air. There will be time, I think, to go deeper. That’s what life is, going deep. Once I have gone deep, deep is no longer deep. I keep diving, farther down, to go farther than I’ve ever gone, to swim to a place I’ve never known. Even while feeling his eyes upon me, I’m rarely ever afraid because I never see the undertaker’s face. I keep swimming down, always thinking there will be a chance to swim back up. In the underwater caves, I find a place where there is no time. My dreams are released as eggs into the depths of the reef and fertilized by the undertaker whose antennas emerge from his cranium to entangle like a spout flowing with tears. As my dreams are born in the dark, I’m penetrated by the undertaker while swimming into the sunken ship that becomes my coffin.