worth the two-handed rush of the cold sweaty glass
toward your lips – cracked and bleeding and aching
for the grace of the cool tender wet of a healing.
Every day is a parched throat of grit and insufficient
spit for swallowing anything other than your withered
pride; you search the horizon for relief and only get blurs –
it is all of the thirsting that makes for all of the drinking.
Hot wafts of mirage focus your squints, your voice
cracks leathered appeals for clarity that does not come;
then you glimpse a distant and wavy beauty you know
is worth the two-handed rush of the cold sweaty glass
she offers your delirium. You try to blink the sweat
from your eyes as you stumble over your need
and burning bare feet, eager to feel just one drop
drip upon your lips – cracked and bleeding and aching
against your knowing it is all a hazy convection
of every wonderful thing you can feel but never touch.
Still, you lunge for the fresh and, as you drink at last,
you feel the grace of the cool tender wet of your healing.
Poetry Quarterly - Fall 2011