The Rest Is Water
And soon there will be more of it, from the runoff
of an unexpected sun, or increasingly large boulders
dropped into the sea like Archimedes in his bathtub.
The world is old, but you are not done with it, even
with its lamentable shortage of tigers, its sleepless armadillos
under sunlamps at the zoo. What you wait for is a flood
of your own, a string section to explain what this is
that’s happening, and who is this man who loves you,
and what color is his hat. You’ve longed exclusively
for good and evil, never expecting this, like all your other
rules, to abandon you when most urgently required.
What were you going to fill your sleepless nights with
but your growing concern over the helium that’s running
low, and where is the barn you were raised in that you
would steal balloons from sick children to extend
its supply? Who are you with nothing else to do
but love him back. When the ark pulls away, you won’t
be waving your lacy handkerchief goodbye
from the upper deck, or from the ground, but in the water,
rainbowed in oil-slick with all the other ugly ones.