Interpretations by Greg Baysans
* * * * * * * |
After the Flood
(Aprés le Delugé)
Once the idea of a flood has gone downstream, a rabbit stops in the moving field and presses, through the sieve of a spiderweb, a prayer onto the rainbow.
Rocks hold precious secrets flowers seek.
On Main Street muddied windows are dressed again and boats come out of storage pretty as a picture.
Blood flows again -- at Caesar's, in meat packing plants, in the arts -- anywhere God left smudges on the walls. Blood flows... and milk.
Beavers dam and customers occupy novelty shops.
In a mansion, its siding still wet, blue orphans study old photo albums.
Then a door bangs shut. In the middle of downtown, a child waves his arms with a motion understood -- from near or as far as a weather satellite -- It's started to rain! An anonymous benefactress installs a piano in the Alps. Masses are given and first communions taken at the hundred altars of the church.
Voyages are launched. The World Trade Center reflects the chaos of ice and light from polar night.
The moon's since been reflecting the howl of jackals in deserts of time - and the sound of sabots clicking in forests. There, in a purple glen, blossombound, Virginia told me spring had sprung.
So overflow, pond -- foam up and boil onto the bridges and over the greens. Black shrouds, fugues, thunder and lightning build, roll. Waters and sorrows build, flood.
Now that they've been consumed too, those cache-rich rocks and pressed flowers, all is ennui. And the Queen, the witch who lights a fire under earthen pots? She'll never tell what she knows and we don't.
(October 12, 1999)