Saturday, October 24, 2009

198 : Nkrumah Jones

Your Thirst

My hand's dirty from building you thirsty cars that suck the oil from distant sandy bars.

I wash with the ancient glacial font blessed from traveled and recessive atmospheres that now evaporate like insense.

I capture winds off Michigan; debride the rusty wounds and grow crops where angry metal plants once stood.

But now you want my water . . .