How my dungeoness click is sourly clawed—
this flood has flushed the strands from my irises.
Tide water is this rank mood, destructive,
dike-eating water with my home beneath it now.

My greater meaning must be interruption.
Is this true?
I am interrupted by water, groping
my walls and floor to a heaving collapse.
I disturb a young home
when my own is breached by this flood,
I am cut off by circumvention and
stature, by district and pivotous rates.
I burst in on a letter with my flood images,
and send it on to the Adjustor.
And even at the start of my relaxation,
when I am a lozenge between my new warm hosts,
I am interrupted in the telephone way,
by the Adjustor and her people,
having received my letters.

“Will I get your help?” I ask.
The phone sputters and breaks into droplets.
I learn my greater meaning must be misfortune,
wet from the heels to the shins.