I admire the transparency of water—
its clarity, its quench, its bucketfuls
sloshed on the sidewalk to wash away the pee.
Tears to clear the eyes, then salt
to count the hours and sculpt the granite.
Hope is a swollen roll of paper towels
bobbing down Broadway
after the hurricane. I remain opaque
as rock, while my good intentions gush
over the brim of the water tower
on the roof of the building
where I live. Salvation awaits,
ankle deep in the hallway,
risk of electrocution, notwithstanding.
