At last the war with the fishes
could not keep most of us from wandering
down to the harbor in those last days
and carefully stepping into it. The fish
were stunned by our vacancy, and we
drifted out like weeds, like lilies giving up.
Here and there a stray hand still
slapped back at the waves, but we knew
that water finally and cozied into it
as it nudged us back to shore or pushed
us bloated belly up from the bottom.
This was no cleansing, this was no tirual,
this was no end, no new beginning:
it was an everyday occurrence.