Second Flood
The sickness in the blood
is the black dire misgiving
of a second flood,
of a wild ringing
in what was once the simple sky,
of an endless rain enchanting
the old ground, down bells
clapping the rich brown,
for life now as rich as death
seeks us, lapping our legs
and those wide eyes, my dear,
the eggs claim, the single cells,
the weather dry as bones,
and coral shells.