The water birds sailing
in search of Byzantium
are now touching down
on this flash-flooded town
on this flash-flooded town
in search of oases—some
retention pond of youth,
some inside-out aquifer
or impromptu estuary—
like Ponce de León,
like Noah’s enervated raven,
like thousands of Parsifals
burnt out on the quest—
burnt out on the quest—
driven by thirst to steal
rain from gutter puddles
in a soggy pantomime
of Promethean fire
or nectar from some presently
nigh-uncountable
overstock remainder
of Holy Grails.
