Overhead, the clouds
portend endless rains.
THE DELUGE I
Reaching his arm into dark waters
He grasps at unseen splinters of lives
Feeling for their edges, searching for purchase
Fingertips brushing the steel barricades
Holding back the refuse of thousands
One by one he extracts the ghosts of the city
Who have ceased their wanderings
At this trap set for our own disasters
He tosses aside their habits of skins and bones
Paying respects scarce as their erstwhile mourners
Until they are out of sight
And the elder powers may start to move --