Great flooding brings joyous rains back to the sea,
and I watch it inch forward abominably.
And the smiling green jackal sees nothing for me.
For nothing is clear in the sky that I see.

And the muskets that turn, turns so darkly and slow
as I find myself spinning and asking “Who knows?”
And I find myself asking the things that I knew.
This is all that I asked to the sky, empty-blue.

Those students ask questions perplexing my mind.
And their writing brings great joy when I ask them in time:
“If peaches and lemons could learn how to rhyme,
would poets, now, treat them like bittersweet limes?”

Oh, the white moon projects its light into the sea.
So the fish know “In life, nothing ever comes free!”
Did the moon send this omen back home straight to me?
While the young shark swims oh so surreptitiously.

While peaches and lemons write stories so true,
but their citrusy sweetness was not meant for you.
See them out-write the writers, their writing so blue.
Will this happen when writing, once old, becomes new?

As scholars, they write a sanctimonious writ.
Like puzzles, they judge and see which words will fit.
And I ask what I asked once; I asked “Who wrote it?”
Now those fishy peach-lemons write poems floodlit.

For it was I, the deaf mender, that wrote that last writ.