Not a wreckage so much as a slow
which, what with the good wind from the east and the good
we might have seen coming,
had we not had our eyes fixed on it:
the arrogant spiraling up and out from the waves; and, too
(though they could’ve been slow-
moving trees from that distance),
the penitent faithful, hunched and sleepwalking
from garden to garden . . .
until then. Who could?
Foolish to put too much stock in another life. Not when this one
(I say this one, though I mean
that one) is (was)
staring you down. Not, at least, without some proof.
even if I did feel,
I confess, some relief when it was over. Always easier to sit
than stand, or so
they say in here (though down’s more accurate,
if more expected) . . .
But you do wonder, now and then, especially
when a little breeze gets in and you taste the salt in the stale air . . .
But what’s a tadpole
to a God-spewed river?