The twisted scrubland of our anxious heart
Bears testimony to low water tables,
Index of a yearlong drought.
Between bright meadows, shady forests,
Come times of fasting and leanness
When the soul’s mouth is dry.
What do we do, what do we ever do
When these familiar times arrive
And we suffer a sudden forgetting?
Take words with you.
Perhaps they will buy
Us water.
Go.