Sworn Viewer of Ruins

You could measure this poem with instruments,
Precisely as surveyors would measure

The fluctuating shoreline of this pond
That is really a reservoir and serves

The thirst of small towns on the desert floor
And sometimes recreational cravings

To get out of the heat and go camping
Or fishing among these quaking aspens.

The shoreline is constantly inconstant.
Some springs it’s fence-drowning high. Some summers

It winds up all-but bone dry, a puddle
Of reeking mud and bloated fish bellies.

You’re a professional. I’m sure you know
The approved way to survey shapes like that.

One of the more difficult decisions,
I’m guessing, would be whether to measure

The distance between the highwater mark
And the point at which the ruins emerge

Of the village that drowned as the words rose
To close over lathe and plaster walls raised

For all the lives whose ghosts gave way so this
Bit of shimmering refreshment could gleam

Between references to aspens and pines,
So an old man in ball cap and face mask

To prevent any risk of infection
Could float along the waves in a small boat,

Blown by spring winds right over those ruins,
Trailing long lines hooked and baited with worms.