After you left the drain in the backyard blocked
and the water rose in the garden as I laundered the clothes
or the dishwasher ran     a strange pool mixed.
I structured a bridge of planks balanced loosely on bricks
and thought about casting rice on the way to the shed.
And the outdoor lamp      popped with firecracker sparks followed
by a plume     of smoke.     I bought summer garden lanterns half-price
with twenty euros worth of petrol and when the guy in the petrol station offered
to fill the windshield wiper’s water as I filled the tires with air—I declined
saying I preferred     not     to see where I was going.     I refused
to put the bins out on the road     for a month     until I saw or imagined     the scuttering hind
of a rat in the garden while unnatural potions conspired and grew
in complexity and whole cities began to collapse      one by one in a pop.

When you came back
the garden sighed with relief, the collar dove cooed, and even the dishwasher smiled.