Steam — of the cloud that built a world, begin;
I shut the valves. The vapour locked me in.
Thoughts rose like fleets. New coasts took shape in air.
I named them soft, and found I did not care
For maps. The tile was court enough to hold
A private reign. I stood. I loved the cold
And heat at once — the white that would not stay,
Yet kept me. Time went out. I let it stray.
Then came the knock. Not once. The wood took three.
"How long?" a voice. "The day will not wait free."
Another: "Out!" A third: "You take the hour."
I was a queen. They wanted me to scour
The mist and cease. I almost said, "I reign."
I said: "A minute." They knocked hard again.
As when a paper boat, wet at the fold,
Claims half the sink for empire, brave and bold:
I launch her past the soap; I cheer each lean;
I name the drip a tide, the faucet queen
Of sudden rain. She rights. I almost crow —
Till someone's hand, impatient of the show,
Draws near the rim and turns the silver plug:
The sea runs out. So fell my grand career.
I left. The mist went thin along the hall.
I dressed. The day went on. I kept no thrall.
Next morning: steam again. The same white room.
No fleets. No knock. No empire in the plume.
I washed. I hummed. The water did its part.
Nothing was special. That was all the art.
Steam — of the cloud that built a world — was spent
By being ordinary when the morning went
The way it always goes. The grand stays late.
The plain comes back. I laughed. I shut the gate.