Almost to the top of houses, shining
water spreads, to no man’s order bound;
a figure in a kayak, too, is present.

Deep clouds mystify with their intentions
all day long, this road the final stretch.
My hopes, though muted, kept me back from terror.

This gate, sign half-destroyed: something “…abandon.”
I linger for awhile, would maybe carve
that I was here, and once in better fettle.

Gibbets reveal what crowds in their gorge will brook.
Unto the Caesar of this blood field, render
a handful of broken words, now good for scoring.

They will not say that we saw no escape
but waited for some shadow more sustaining
than fear of losing our baubles, to obscure.

As clear details emerge, the waters confine
themselves to banks again: survivors tarry
where something still of shift may be named aloud.

The brain shall crush its source—that admired organ.

M.H. was born in Dallas in 1958. Shortly afterwards, fish fell from the sky.