You water this box the way flowers take up the slack are circling down to reach the corners who have lost everything, torn from the rot all wood scrapes against so you can hear over and over how dirt is fed, half with grieving faces half from wanderlust and the need to walk—you know all about how step by step a certain river is poured back, closes in, taking along the small sea once inside your legs and now as arms and the wet grass trembling slowly around your kisses —you water and why not cover the dead with shipwrecks, flood this floor and the flowers one by one carry it off, down to the bone.