The next three poems are all about
living in a very rainy and foggy climate.
The third was written in Tucson after an escape
from rainy, foggy climates.
This is called Atlantis.
Our new house isn't steady.
I feel water below the floors.
When we sleep I think it rises slowly through the cracks.
I'm afraid it's the ocean, for I found salt on the walls.
When it reaches our windows, we'll
cut gills into each other's throats,
just like our neighbors, then bend our heads
into our new element, a mile below the sun.
I think we may carry an umbrella for the first year
against the immense pressure of waves.
We'll even tap the shells until tiny air bubbles float out
toward the surface, which we'll imagine bright with ships.
I'll describe all the clouds I remember trying not to notice
how seaweed tangles in my hair.
We'll dream ourselves on earth.
When you point to the sun, I'll watch your blurred face,
your eyes closing with disuse.
I won't tell you that the shadow floating above us is a whale.
I'm turning dark and strange.