Half a dozen boot prints, a pair of spoons and a green bottle caked
in dust
mutter between forgotten furrows
hidden under oat silks
beyond the freeway
surrounding the homeless camp where i crouch, squinting behind lashes, watching yellow beams
gather grey
beyond cables strung between telephone sticks
(pregnant with smoke or rain,
barbed verbs and chickens to keep out the snakes)
carrying static
above this frayed sheet where I sit,
crumpling
under broken stems and scorch
eyes too full of drought
to cry
praying for cloudbursts
to pour over my dusty eyebrows, over parched cheeks, to lips knotted
in thirst
teardrops, or any kind of shower
wave after wave
melting broken bottle cuts
into sea glass
