NYT: Hurricane Filled New York Aquarium

Tanks in the Sea Cliff exhibit were open at the top

And vulnerable to the incursion of seawater with their clouds

Of salt-water minnows now cast on the deep pile of lobby carpets,
Among the grains of harbor magnetite scattered among invasions

Of the sunny tropics—Indonesian seahorses knowing nothing of clouds
Of Wiring and insulation, where the City’s gut itself has extensions into the arms,

Such is the tarnished inlay of light grids reflecting everything but the real invasion—
Faster than evacuated hearts, the counting houses and their outflows are abandoned

Their modes of thought and enjoyments, whose race is moving inward into the arms

Revealed to be those of the Lord. Floodwater occasioned its siphons through glass,
Entangled the sieves of whiplash tails and dorsal spines. A crown of thorns abandoned

From Indo-Pacific waters is blocked from menacing life abounding in tanks arranged side

By side like tiles. They come to wipe declining old contaminants besmearing the glass,

And although they have no head, no heart, the sluggish jellies note there is less being
Eaten, less diffused gas. Just as the keepers—whose impulses are normally aside

From people— struggle to pump the basement out. Activate the carbon filtering this world

Portrayed in miniature. The fish were happy to remain in their own half, there being
Less for those necessities, but three-inches of shower stall water; thankfully, not carpet,
Harboring an American eel rechristened Lazarus, who will be the celebrity of this world

From our museums of e-mails, life work of tenants carried away by pressures of life at the top.

Tetrapod

What have I needed to exclude should seem ready to raise nude
And contend with gravity. Rewards come to anyone, the balsamic moon

Dashes the entrance, since there is not very much more of life to understand,
Ripens in the weeks following, and fossilizes into the down-sloping, piscine

Reflections that bore the comity of painting, of all accidents. Successive moons
Lap the standing water representing cities. With their low-water marks and sunken torches,
The work endows it with a sedimentary thickness. Lying from one’s own thoughts, the piscine
Sound catches, and denied an ordinary life, lends an inner ear to the keen of intimates

Watching the street near the flat, of getting a leg up. Take your chosen nuptial torch

To some footstep-haunted transept or tollgate. Push up to exploit the oxygen like an angry
Swimmer, although flexing our proto-limbs failed to cultivate sleep. Rather an intimate
Footing with its fund of resentment, whether it was beyond the skull’s indwelling ear bones,

Trapdoor echo, and eternal tide-stranded replies, it happened with half of the angry
Modern values. Their letters smeared, although the more powerful for being digitalized.
There is a wide selection on offer—out of the cusp of middle age—the picked bones
Of our departed founder, where the results stood favoring a glistening, poolside nude.

The result is a Wunderkammer, indeed. Through countryside as black as the sea, digitalized
Versions would not tolerate the eccentric seclusion of the past, or the subdesertic south
Not simply of your body but the reason for its empire. It too soon disappears back into the turf.
Each of its species will increase, to touch not only its addressee, but strange nudes

Along the way. Monosyllables guard this hour of love, and the moon souths

At nine; in our hands, a dial roundly refusing to be true.  Putting aside factions of nudes

That allow the gaze no rest, their reptilian backstories—not for lack of them cached in the turf--
Stuttering out of a leathery egg, the first grin joined with its half mirror in the piscine.

Doing the Frog (With Feeling)

Tetrapod

What have I needed to exclude should seem ready to raise nude
From its clothing, and contend with gravity. Rewards come to anyone
Who dashes the entrance, or willingly committed to the scales, a pretext.
Unlike hair and nails, the only part that fossilizes into the down-sloping, piscine

Reflections that bore the comity of painting, of all accidents. Successive moons

Lap the standing water representing cities. Their low-water marks, sunken torches—

The work endows it with a sedimentary thickness. In sluggish advent from the piscine
How the sound catches, and lends an inner ear to the keen of potential mates

Wielding a power point, and getting a leg up. An improvised relighting, a nuptial torch
Even smuggling in the idea, is that first push-up to exploit the oxygen like an angry
Swimmer—the trials of flexing our proto-limbs to urban attachments, or an intimate
Footing and its fund of resentment.  Whether it was beyond the skull’s indwelling ear bones

A trapdoor’s echo, and eternal tide-stranded replies, it happened with half of the angry
Modern values, their letters smeared. The tracks are more powerful for being digitalized
Whose pectoral girdle panted to keep the head up out of the cusp of middle age
Our departed founder had been told the results stood, in favor a glistening, poolside nude.

The result is a Wunderkammer, indeed, through countryside as black as the sea. Digitalized
Versions would not tolerate the eccentric seclusion of the past, or the subdesertic south
Not simply of your body but the reason for its empire. 

[...]

Tetrapod

What have I needed to exclude should seem ready to rise nude
From its clothing, and contend with gravity. The fins flicked instead.
In this work all is process, which the fusions should make more powerful;
instead, they are the only parts that fossilize. All that is down-sloping, piscine

Reflect the accidents of survival, of painting. Successive new moons instead

Lapped the standing water—only to reveal low-water marks, the sunken torches—

And utter friability of sentimental choices. Witness a slow emergence from the piscine
How the sound catches, and lends an inner ear to the keen of potential mates

All those self-catering breaks, of getting a leg up, and relighting a nuptial torch
Smuggling in the idea is akin to that first push-up to exploit the oxygen, like an angry
Swimmer—the trial of flexing our proto-limbs amounts to urban attachments, an intimate
Footing with those we slander. Those indwelling ear bones beyond the skull’s trapdoor

What echo of actions, and eternal tide-stranded replies—It debuted with half of the angry
Modern values—the tracks are dated but undigitalized. All that is left is the powerful
Pectoral girdle panting to keep the head up. Even these questions have migrated
to the mouth, now fit for neither water nor necklaces, swarming up poolside and nude.

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