(no subject)
highwater
+ flash/ the cloud’s so heavy with water that it doesn’t rain, just falls, tumbling and colliding with nothing but air ‘til it’s reaching the pointed tops of telephone poles + it’s crashing and roaring on tile roofs and they’re leaking + the cloud’s reaching the ground and hitting the earth with an explosion, a big bang that destroys and creates (homes and a river) + its weight is spreading so fast, filling gutters with snakes and drowned rats that rise up like remnants of a plague + the water’s going everywhere; the father is trying to find an inflatable pool toy, anything, a shiny plastic seahorse expanding with breath but alone he can hardly manage it + his lungs cave, exhausted, or maybe he’s finding a canoe if the family is fortunate enough to have money for that type of thing, or maybe he’s scrapping together planks of wood emerging from the water; any case he’s hoping it will be enough to hold them when they’re taking off down river faster than baby Moses in a basket + water’s coming in the house now + it’s filling up like an hourglass bottom + space and time are running out + a mother is clutching photographs of the kids in the backyard + it’s still dry then, you can even see the grass; looking down now there’s no grass, just the rolling movement of the cloud’s contents now muddy and dangerous + the baby’s exiting through the window from hand to hand like a soggy gift, her mother being careful to keep the head above the water that’s coming in now without stop + all together they hang onto their seahorse or canoe or set of boards; then they see it, their neighbors are crying, someone’s missing, he’s gone, left to check on the others, must have gotten swept off in the current + maybe he got a plank or a canoe or a seahorse but no one knows + the cloud’s not done yet; the water just continues, contains you, contends you, reigning and pouring.
+ flash/ the cloud’s so heavy with water that it doesn’t rain, just falls, tumbling and colliding with nothing but air ‘til it’s reaching the pointed tops of telephone poles + it’s crashing and roaring on tile roofs and they’re leaking + the cloud’s reaching the ground and hitting the earth with an explosion, a big bang that destroys and creates (homes and a river) + its weight is spreading so fast, filling gutters with snakes and drowned rats that rise up like remnants of a plague + the water’s going everywhere; the father is trying to find an inflatable pool toy, anything, a shiny plastic seahorse expanding with breath but alone he can hardly manage it + his lungs cave, exhausted, or maybe he’s finding a canoe if the family is fortunate enough to have money for that type of thing, or maybe he’s scrapping together planks of wood emerging from the water; any case he’s hoping it will be enough to hold them when they’re taking off down river faster than baby Moses in a basket + water’s coming in the house now + it’s filling up like an hourglass bottom + space and time are running out + a mother is clutching photographs of the kids in the backyard + it’s still dry then, you can even see the grass; looking down now there’s no grass, just the rolling movement of the cloud’s contents now muddy and dangerous + the baby’s exiting through the window from hand to hand like a soggy gift, her mother being careful to keep the head above the water that’s coming in now without stop + all together they hang onto their seahorse or canoe or set of boards; then they see it, their neighbors are crying, someone’s missing, he’s gone, left to check on the others, must have gotten swept off in the current + maybe he got a plank or a canoe or a seahorse but no one knows + the cloud’s not done yet; the water just continues, contains you, contends you, reigning and pouring.