Nation of water and excess,
each droplet another source
of loss and discontent.
Or else what music calls
to the earth from its dislocated sky—
low-hanging, pregnant
as with Noah's flood.
Again inundated, as in dream.
A slow truth brings the body back—
it is the other who lies
between two worlds-
the uncle shrunken to half
his size, that one who succored me
with smoke rings from his ear.
Child the birdbath fills. Come, let us drink.