( A few days after Hurricane Harvey)
what more, what deeper, what hidden?
Bags of spilled sand and cast-off screens
breathe on the river bank. Someone tells me
they will be gone in the morning, shifted
elsewhere in different shapes.
I look at the woman
as she steps in her boat and steers
into the evening glare. Her presence doesn’t stain
the burnished water with any shadow;
and I glance toward the palms
dusting the wall of an old warehouse —
Asleep, I enter the same building
and follow its cement pillars
(moist with moss spittle)
to an open view of the park.
Statues molded from mesh & silt
dominate the lawn. A man kneels,
a mother crouches, a child hugs his dog
and overhead, the sun hovers
with its hind wings shimmering
on leaves & what has been felt.
I know it’s morning,
The morning rise of a wasp.