Sun glasses cannot hide the red-eyed weeper
who’s language of the body
tips his hand;
tears fall for the pilgrim’s land,
dryer than it ought to be,
scares a living thing.
Suppose the water ceased to flow
from faucet, as we all do know,
suppose the rivers waned
to dust gullies
wouldn’t take too long to find our knees.
It makes me thirsty just to think,
it might be rare to get a drink.