a smaller ark 

so i heard there's going to
be The Flood. a postcard written
in numbers, that is to say,
written in the language of god.
he likes the number 2, though 
the divinity is lost in translation.

in the living room i read
the words for hours before they made sense.
a revoke of the rainbow. we always
knew this could happen. an exit apology.
i tacked it above my desk & began
to work. we have little time. 

i bought a small stack of 
balsa wood, thin sheets, recalled
summer camp in Nolde Forest.
fingers stuck together with
hot glue, making ships to 
send down stream. we'll need 
to be smaller, get to work on that.

the first flood would have killed me.
i would have tried to take all
my books. how did they leave 
without books? yes, i know
god floods earth because he doesn't
want us to tell better stories than him.

the work of becoming smaller involves,
first, a mirror. a partner to hold
onto you by the wrists. we go two
by two-- there will be room.
it's like folding a note-- in half
in half in half. crease bone 
crack rib. the stern & sternum. 

this is an argument for making
a smaller ark. for leaving the animals
to salvation themselves. 

for you & me & throwing 
olive branch to sea. 

what use is a dove?
you must not feel guilty.

i'll set us in the river 
long before there's grey clouds
or the smell of rain.

travel along side the dead leaves,
orange & maroon flickering between
currents. the tongues of flame.

glimpses of prism 
off the water-- you'll hold
me as i lean off the bow to
fish them out. a tangled omen,
the colors mis-matched & 
undone. a promise is impractical 
without scales. 

of course, i may have read 
the letter wrong. the number 2
could be nothing god-like.
but here we are, the size
of moths. the water clear.
the dead leaves following us 
to safety.