Natural selection

Number nine garage is half-open,
a shiny lid that swallows water.
And, submerged, staircases, halls,
pottery with roots. The man I'm here
to see, naked, tangled in a sheet,
believes he's Jesus. Many that suffer
do. His eyes are crystalline. But he's
oblivious to the other musts – wisdom,
discipline, self-sacrifice, can barely
grasp my off-shore drawl. Now, looking
out, all the garage doors half-open,
not just number nine, and, between
them, the waterway stretching off
into the red morning, as if the sky
has more serious wounds.