On the beach before the flood, I watch ships
Full of frightened people and animals
Sailing toward the horizon in search
Of dry land and long life. Time is evil,
And the way the light hits the waves proves this,
As does the smell of rotting cypress trees.
When I was innocent, I climbed those trees
To keep their crowns, where I'd count the masts of ships.
I kept meticulous records of this
Count, along with a list of animals
I could see form above, until evil
Appeared as a correlation: the search
For wildlife grew difficult when the search
For boats at sea was easy. Then the trees
Disappeared also, and so did evil,
Into the hearts of everyone. The ships
Grew cannons, people walked with animals
On leashes: horrible dogs. All of this
Was a warning, but we understood this
As progress. Crawl, then walk, then run, then search,
Then stalk. To eat dangerous animals
Meant to evolve, as did to cut down trees
In order to build ever larger ships.
In my hands I feel the pain of evil.
It is a specific type of evil.
I worked in the sea's troughs and crests, and this
Day's doom is a reminder of the ships
Where my austere life leaned forward. My search
For nothing returned me to rotting trees
And the ghostly land of wild animals
Whose shapes in clouds evoke youth -- animals
Bred until their good became our evil.
A voice in my head says the masts are trees,
The coming storm will return all of this
Corruption to innocence, and my search
Will again mean no more than counting ships.