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.