Wait, followed by, I hear the sound of water—

            in a dream, the flood took us two by two

and there was hollowness

                                                somehow similar to the shade of an oak.

The flood is here, Jeremiah—the flood is here for your endless days.

It is true that virality is like carbon

            in that

                                    it rests inside all the earth

                        and can only be washed away

                                                            by a rush of heat.       

                                                In the mornings, I wake from myths

                                                                        to mistake the body’s cough  

            for music. A host of sparrows sits on the roof

                        of a nearby, broken down church against the silent, colorless sky.

The wind is as inevitable as the sickness inside it. All at once,

                                                the birds leave. A raindrop—

                        the earth opens.