The rainy season has fled, river in slow retreat; aquifer full; reservoir a few feet taller.
Into gritty soil Poseidon plants his trident like a tree in a universe whose roots reach
down to somewhere else.

Running past me, a man holding a water bottle is talking to his friend. "If I start over,
what would I do?" The gods demand a sacrifice. Not oxen anymore; now the whole

world turns
    on an
empty spit.