Everything is sinking–

while a man is singing opera in
San Francisco. He heightens
his pitch as the gulf coast
shatters like a cage.
I used to know him before

the toothed gears of water
and its punishing eye. I was ten
when he meant to come for us,
to follow the track
of warm water and collapse

our lives to double-wide.
Across the bay, drunken
gods shot away precision, its lack
drowned schools and amputated
airplane hangars. This was meant for us.

Across the bay they forgot
the answers as quickly as tarp
masked iridescent lights. Our
lenses clung to the wreckage, the void
between two worlds to be trenched quietly
and with no regard for how
they tumbled.

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