THE FLOOD

i.

Under the veneer of official city business someone spray-painted "666" on a path from the sidewalk to a parking lot off Cabot street.


The city is under the command of a maniac.


I see men and machines rip up road through the slats of my apartment window. Painted arrows and lines guide them away from water-mains and "direct-buried fiber-optic cable."

But I'm onto them and look closer at the arrows.

They form a pentagram or some other occult symbol I recognize but cannot confirm.

A net is being thrown over the city, inculcating us in some plot.

A man in a reflective vest shrugs a shoulder to his mouth and mumbles into a two-way radio. I can't hear what he's saying.





ii.

The city doesn't mean to be listened to.

The yellow and white paint on the road is invisible by its default style.

Like air except tangible.

I drive then stop at the red light but it means nothing.

I was walking the other day and stopped to consider a cloud over there above the teal house on the corner. "It wants to mean something." The leaves are changing from green to yellow to orange.

If I hang a red light above our building where the moon crests.

The cars go by without noticing and the city says nothing to me.





iii.

"ROAD SUBJECT TO FLOODING"
says the yellow sign.

If I were a road and it rained hard for a week, I'd do as I've been trained. Send an email, tomorrow is Tuesday, and just try to be happy.

Outside the flood bears down on the street and grass but it means nothing to me.

The subject of the flood involves the road and cops and red lights in whatever it's saying. If it means something, it's the sort that doesn't mean to be listened to. "No one listens to poetry," says Jack Spicer.

It's the crash of waves and "the ocean does not mean to be listened to."

Sirens and signs for detours and road closures partake in the ocean's lapping. They corral the traffic into patterns that seen from above form a series of three sixes. Somebody listens to poetry.

I work another email out and the tap of keys copycat the drops that hit my window. I reach the send button, tap.

Soon I'm home and get to see you again and a metaphor swells inside me.

It's something that's part of the rest of the world.

The flood rises and has no place to empty in language. "How was work?" I ask.

You ignore the spoken parts and focus on what's spilling out. When there's enough for a glass you add a rock and we sit by the window and listen to the rain hit.