Imagine a rose underwater. (But not rose water.) Between you and me, a vast pool of maybe blue. A single rose floats slowly in a protected orb, as if it were the only glimmering oxygen in outer space. Back on earth, the world is flooding, even in millionaires’ underground doomsday bunkers. Every dance, every marriage, every birth, continues on watery stages of some apocalypse. A full moon illuminates pink petals bathed in chlorinated droplets.