Sunlight whistles off the tip of each wave as it sails
home. Every seabird finds its own way to live
with water. You have no water and the kitchen sink is dry
as bones. The toilet flushes but doesn’t fill and there you are
home. Every seabird finds its own way to live
with shipwrecks and shells and souls wingless
as bones. The toilet flushes but doesn’t fill and there you are
useless as a poem when a well runs dry. But you are alive.
With shipwrecks and shells and souls wingless
as you are, you stand in a basement with a pump that’s dead,
useless as a poem when a well runs dry. But you are alive,
without water, the whistle of water in a space that’s dark
as you are—you stand in a basement with a pump that’s dead.
How the silence of absence jostles our senses, the Earth
without water, the whistle of water in a space that’s dark.
We never know the end until space simply stops, hearing
how the silence of absence jostles our senses, the Earth
with water. You have no water and the kitchen sink is dry.
We never know the end until space simply stops hearing
sunlight as it whistles off the tip of each wave as it sails.
