Sitting in the wet garden you smashed the land like a cup
           – your legs were moving
                        over a patch of firmament – chant-drying
feed – feed – feed me
            to the tenth layer of wormlife underneath.
Where we sat the watervines climbed stupors of despair
             they are a cord – they are a rope
                      they travel up
                                  the only way –
if they keep chanting
            will the flood be fed?
I wasn’t terrified of the flood – I smashed it
              in the cup – even the highest vines are fleeing now
                            – we watch their entrails
                                        cover the floor like sleep.
When we say ‘we’, a livid flame
            breaks in between and chases landing
                         until our legs vine under life.
And if we were to stand?
            The waters might run down to newer earth.