The streets shine this morning and the earth is precise.
After a drought, small throats are hoarse with longing.
There is no after, this is the beginning of burning.
Look at the moon. Mars. Planets shine with emptiness.
And the stars are dead. I bring my life to it.
Stand in the front yard, hose in my hand, watering.
The private joy of leaves. Everything burned.
Too late to run for cover. Too late to live forever.
The wet rage of watered plants that should have been watered earlier.
A sustenance of dry crackers on an otherwise empty plate.
This distance from water and wine.
