* *

People build towns on hills.
They don’t care what Noah would think about them.
There is always a way to learn the age of the water,
Always a way to ask what it doesn’t like to keep hidden.
Noah is jealous like a thousand beavers in a meadow,
Dead like stranded fish. But Jonah builds Trojan whales
And leaves them on the highest mountains he can reach.
They rot for centuries exposing the empty guts
To the genial sun and astounded silent birds.
The void conquers God while the prophets relax below.
The higher you climb, the less your voice needs you.



Each winter old astronauts sleep in the mountains.
Fingers grow everywhere in the snow like ballpoint pens
after the Deluge. The best always die first,
Noah used to say. Do you by any chance believe that?
Wasn’t he just a misogynist control freak? Don’t good
things last forever? Or is forever too time-consuming
to your taste? The best always die first, but carpenters
escape from the disciples into outer space and cease
clipping the hair and nails and roar with joy. Haven’t you seen
the planes and mallets in museums, those they left behind?