Saturday, March 28, 2020



I denied my desire to drink
Once I realized thirst
Could not be quenched.
Instead I set aside
Small cups of water
To coat my brittle lips
Before they cracked and bled.

Tiny room with a desk,
Small spiral ring notebooks,
Dense with cramped script.
Small portions had always been enough
To keep me fed:
The things I can grip
And carry when I fled.

I dead-ended deep in a forest
Up against cliffs of shale and slate
Sponged with brackish moisture,
So swollen they dripped.
Closed my eyes and and lifted my face
To the water that comes from stone
And the moss cushioned my weight.

I have always been mostly water
And water never gets wet.
All the cups must be tipped.
The beaded puddles that spread
Across my varnished desk
Coalesce, fathomless:
Deep enough to dive head first.


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