Noah

The impulse took shape deep in habitual rock,
inviolate beyond spasmodic sand
and tidewash;

driven forth by imaginings of mud, 
of gull-cry, the slap and suck, and faultless maneuvers
back and up, 

contrariwise, forcing up flexible towers 
as if from roots, 
like struts for the logical spider’s self-spending play, 

frame for the lyrical swallow to string and pluck, 
a gate for the paired world’s cattle:
old Noah’s ark

rose to the croak of ravens and lull of doves
and docked at the seven lane span from this world
to that.

And Noah never looked back,
but, perhaps, was sad.