The Hippopotamus

the hippo's rising to the surface
we're all hoping it'll go on rising
once, twice, till we verify its
being there, with its sound-slumbering music
in winter, its wide-wealthy back
requires touching, requires fondling
or else, the hippo ought to rise inside of railings
like truth's order. but at least the hippo is, at the water's surface, ordering
distinguishing its stony wrinkles from the water's wrinkles
an absolute necessity
its colour of blacknight from the water's colour of glass
when the hippo stands still: beneath it a patch of damp dripping shadow
this is its watery church house just now left behind
its appearance, dreary; its eye-balls like dreams
it renews its movement, it resembles midnight's angel
on a brick wall it casts there thick shadows from its wings
it also resembles a floweret; winter will once more assess it
using a sense of loss and a large sheaf of leftover dry grass
but just now, the hippo is there
here we wait for an end to its submarine prayers
in a place no one has ever visited before
in that place we are rising, and seeing our own
families wrapped up inside clouds and the hippos of summertime
they come raindrop-like, drifting near, tumbling down
but almost did not touch the ground; there in the water they're
accompanying the music. they are cheering
while we all vanish. everything as it should be
while the world's monumental physical questioning
will soon revert to quiet

THE HIPPOPOTAMUS