Static

  
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

 

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