Arid

by July 12, 2017 0 comments

The water table of equanimity
has drained beneath the range
of buckets.

The well-borer’s drill unearths
nothing; the dowser’s rod
refuses to quiver.

Desperate for clouds, we suck
road gravel in the glare
of our own sun,

then, grinding within and
without, we abandon all
we have made.

editors note:

An odd, dry freedom in abandonment. – mh clay

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