(before the flood)

Kristen Orser
before the flood, we whooped it up.  
rain in our sighs.  

the phenologist had a seizure,
started telling the truth:  
there is nothing to do 

but watch flowers open.  

winter can't be stopped, 
soon we'll be covered in snow.  
it doesn't matter 

how many words spill 
out of an ear tilted over the sink, 
there will still be silence.  

and silence.  

(will our words wear veils?)  

certain clouds nest 
eggs of language 

until there is a fissure in the sky
and words fall in the shape of closed eyes.

and if they are swallowed, 
we'll all choke on heiroglyphics 

and bury what spillsó

so that there will be a garden 
of fragments, blossoming 
and breaking at the touch of our exhales.