Bad Things Could Happen (Revised 2)

After the flood,
a dead smell comes into the house from beneath the floor.
It puts a fog on our lives like breath on cold windows;
a dark water condenses along the surface of existence.

For three nights I dream dreams.
I dream the drowned bodies of the men who wait to kill me,
dead under the house with their knives and fangs.

In the mornings, when I drive through the streets ,
my joy for life fills the car like tears.
It spills out
into the mouth of the city.

A trail of joy has spread out behind me.
It's like blood for vultures.