The full moon called-in after-hours

Wedged like a mint in the oiled airway of the world,
the Ever Given waits for the moon to pry open
its throat for water. I’ve slid into the couch, a lost 
lozenge. Can’t look up or back, dream-sousing 
the great books in the library of Alexandria
that burned—ones I didn’t write. I’ve got nothing 
on the forces of nature. No rising tide. No lift out 
of this bucket-stupor. Egyptians cut the isthmus 
deeper. Farmers filled and emptied a billion baskets, 
then steam shovels, dredgers and a red sea swelled 
for vast containers. I lived at the lip of a maw 
that swallowed whole a temple’s roof. No gates. 
No guards. Just a parking lot’s dry socket and 
decayed white molar, garbage, and loose papers.