a savage peeks his head out of a socketof ruin, a boat returns with no crew,
and death makes us back into ether.There seems no room for other versions.
A couple in the middle of rush hourstep out of their car and leap off a bridge,
only to hit a catwalk a few feet below.And in the abrupt joy, when they crack
a heap of ribs, dodge the arc of tragedy,they turn, laugh, then nudge each other
over the side. This time they congrue.They become what we expect. Love,
shouldn’t we achieve a thing as clean?In our garden of unfinished beds,
half-believing the half-empty,it looks like we’re falling together;
it looks like we’re treading water.