The Rising Tide

The water’s reached the ankles of the furnace,

a cold and oily skim across the floor.

I’m looking for a sign, some kind of witness,

but the basement doesn't offer any more.

I find the gauge behind a coat of rust,

the glass is cracked and clouded like an eye.

I wipe away the grit and ancient dust

to watch a needle twitch and specify

absolutely nothing I can understand.

The numbers have been eaten by the lime.

I’m standing with a wrench in either hand

while the machinery just waits out its time.