There's a gallery of glasses,
half empty of water,
displayed on my desk.
You told me water would help
to sober me up
and fight the pain of morning
when it comes.
I've been looking at them
blearily, for hours.
(They're not so funny now I'm not
sure I can make them sing,
I'm not sure I can make you sing,
if it must come to that,
or that you can make me sing, but)
I know I can fill another tall glass
drop
by
drop
by
drop
by
drop,
and I can watch the world
(its shrunken self)
distort itself
to fit my moon like some glass slipper.
I'll water my pillow before I sleep.
You seemed sure water's what I need,
but I'm terrified of flood.
I moved the sandbags to the shed,
so now I have to let it come,
succumb, succumb-
most of the earth is water, and it's
inviting me in.
