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.