West of here, an incursion, a storm surge:
the breakwaters give way.
East of here, levees burst in an unseasonable torrent.
The tarns of the Tetons decant their icemelt
into this basin of ours,
this gold chalice of once-habitable land.
Eloi, eloi, the heartland has gone missing,
and the tribe of the Gros Ventre.
I am water-brought.
I float up to the cathedral ceiling
toward a last lungful of air.
Where is the animal who feels no fear?
Going under, I hear buffalo bellowing,
owls who’ing at noon.