no purchase to exhale

I dreamed I was drowning, with no purchase to exhale; this exegesis an arc, when an ark, raft, a floating felled tree from a logging camp, any-thing other, would have been more partisan, appropriate.
But being a dowser is all about the night sweats – every drop doesn't lead to the sea, you understand?
Of course you do – you've swallowed your spit before, choking on a meniscus that could easily be a contact lens plucked from your eye; and salt water stings.

Spirited away, swirling, under a metal filling gone mad for frequency, the drain cover, my mouth snuffling, rooting for silver, or some-thing other, equally precious. Such as I am. Floating in goose-down feathers.
But the finding of me, is about walking barefoot, as I hold a blue-road and a cloven talisman, a small ivory carved horn, in my outstretched hands.

My friend Veil, argues differently. But then she presages passage along a stick and timber filled river. She suggests truffles are within her purview, but I can't worry her, for I constantly mistake fly agaric as other. And so we are, if anything, both divining for some One. Her as punter – me as douser.