Tuesday, May 3, 2011


I know where to find you,
Or at least,
I know where to look.
I reach towards my dreams
But that secret realm is a dry
No roiling clouds redden the sky
No blossoms springing from their nests of thorns, no.
I search for the juices
Don’t you?
Rich, sticky
The sap of bent stem
The hope of amber and secret treasures
Oozing and acrid
That tang the tongue?
Dowsers we are
With crooked sticks we seek the spot where we dig
Hoping for gushers
But still satisfied with cool moss-backed seeps.
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