Floating on this great hunk of wood,
the work of my own unsteady hands,
while the monsoon endeavors
to rip me down-
I am not enjoying this.
But even less when it all suddenly ends,
a voice says “come out, it’s safe”
and there’s nobody left alive.
A miracle, I suppose,
but am I not to assume
my craft has done its work,
that I have rescued myself?
And this new world, though dry enough
expects that I should rush to sun myself
that I should not retreat back to
the dampness that I know.