Brief Landing on the Earth's Surface

Flood

Flood The baby blooms beside me on the cross-town bus. powdered skin and laundered bunting, someone else's creampuff. I haven't combed my hair today or washed my face. still raw from last night's quarrel. The problem: I won't move in, or leave my clothes at his place. What weary stuff'. Truth is. I'm lacking. There are times when JUSt asentence changes the whole scory and rearranges all mar's come before. I long for that upheaval. Call it a warm spell early in the season: water Roods the house. The kitchen table, liberated. Aoau across a vanished lawn. It must be similar to being born, the old surroundings turned mysterious and new. A miracle, or maybe JUSt what happens. The little stranger, for example, perched here beside me in this funnyworld, fist curled, patting her toothless gums. Each rime the bus hits a pothole her eyes open wide. each time. again and again. luminous. surprised. ...