We buried the men who built the canals
within their sloping walls.

  Then the rains came
  and the river rose

and with each new breach
they were once again set free

  carried to the yards of respectable folks
  who could afford
  clean surroundings.

We built them little cubbies then
with locking doors, an ordered grid
along the graveyard wall

  but the fevers climbed up from the grass
  sat down on a wrap-around porch
  and waited for the windows to lift

while an ocean away, a woman
renowned for her dreams
carried voices to neighboring farms:

  He asked if I could tell you how sorry he is
  he cannot make it home.