Funny how, as the rivers and the lakes dry up,
the tragic and luckless dead of ages past
poke their heads out from the silt, as if to say,
“Hey, I’ve been there buddy, I know how you feel.
We all drown eventually, some in water, some in time
(both now running out), some in sorrow—” their torsos
are uncovered now, they sit up and stretch their rotten limbs—
“or the nothing-black of despair. We all run out of air,
whether it’s from a hand over our mouths
or the last tree burning to keep us warm for the last night,”
and now they’re free to stand, to walk to what we still insist
is the shore and place their hands on our shoulders
in what I’m sure they think is a comforting gesture.
“Don’t worry,” they say, their breath fishy and mildewed,
we’d never want to smell it until we knew
we’d never smell it again, “Don’t worry, come on in,
the water’s gone, and so are you.”
Certain of Eventual Failure 