Nearly an architecture with all its verbs in place, two arks

      touching lightly above the water, nearly dark

as you reach for the window, flowers out of focus

      in the waves. There were years you couldn’t speak,

your pigeon-toed tongue. A strong wind. Behind you

      the past grows louder, nearly the elephants fleeing,

nearly lions. Tomorrow

      you will take a walk. Tomorrow you will mail a letter.

There is a dream emerging from the river, the animals

      rushing toward their names.