Boil Advisory

and even this has turned to poison,
while we hauled it from the well,
our limbs sweating with the motion
like sinners racing towards hell
and even this was worthless toiling
(the profit deadly as the pact)
and even now we still are boiling
and hope to purify the act.

Dearth

vast and unforgiving,
hardpan and caked clay
beneath the rustle of sands,
the swirling of their dresses and shifts;
deep, deep, deep is the water and
here is nothing; day and night,
lifeless and predictable as
the rotation of a foreign planet.
Here are my deep and shallow places;
my sands and my dead seeds,
here I am, standing in the thirst,
here I am, digging for promises
and rumors.

Hope is worse than knowing;
tell a man there’s gold in a hill and
he’ll destroy the hill, the hill will destroy him,
and nothing of note will be found.
Tell a man there’s nothing here,
nothing,
and he will move to green prairie
and ignore those deep, deep,
deep waters.