Dry
Posted by Chris Clarke on July 30, 2008
This wizened mind will ebb, this desiccated soul will seep
into the land, as water poured upon this land will seep
beneath the grains of sand. An evanescing shine recedes
there on the ground and vanishes, as avid, thirsty air
sears the sere sunwashed soil. The dark and glistening patch contracts,
shrinks to a dot, one last and longing grain of rock still damp
then it too dries, no sign that water ever touched this land
except the fluid carving in the rock, the chasms cut
as one and then another futile storm expends itself,
gouging the land, rending the land, but making no dent
in the land’s unceasing thirst. This emptiness of land
will eat my emptiness. I will suffuse into the earth,
this earth, this desolate expanse of varnished rock and thorn,
this welcoming, familiar disregard, ambivalence
its lovers’ currency. Some distance must be kept.
Wicked cats’ claws adorn these limbs, and their sharp pain at first
is gentleness contrasted with the pain they cause upon
release; barb-studded quills to rend the skin. It is enough
to fall into their grasp. To pull away again is ruin.
I will walk naked out into the waste, will bleed me out
in desolate mad glory, and each drop of me that falls
will seep beneath these grains of sand, an evanescing shine.
