animal heads float above the surface

sheep’s matted wool and dead rats amongst the debris

worst rainfall since 1911, and

I am all alone.
the confines of this bucket dig into my lower back
and wet metal indents my calves

I hope you, too, have a bucket
my love

for although your legs are sturdy
you cannot hold yourself above the roofs
the plaster walls breaking off and sticking to your skin,
imprinting

memories of others onto you

but remember:
the crème brûlée at 3 a.m. after you returned from the docks
and the drunken dances in the kitchen to BB King’s voice

maybe my wedding dress is drifting

between the gardens and
I can wear it when our buckets meet somewhere along this natural disaster
-- the fragmented filled canal --
and you would immediately recognize its bell sleeves

amongst the damp wood
and loose shingles