This water did not call itself harbor,
yet here ships slumber, people imagine
books into breezes, children
splash breath back into the shallows,
one mad cackle beckoning another.
And I worship what I can’t control:
Can’t shape the way the hurricane turned
sky into a twin ocean, tore from the earth
like saplings trees a hundred
years of rain had raised; seemingly composed now,
these waters took to land before the winds came,
flooding roads; some kids drove their truck
into the new pools, screaming deliriously,
over and over, up and down the disappearing block,
each new spray of danger a fresh forever.
