The radiators spit steam, drip water
like from the hot core of who we are.
Water: who we are. Even in the dry expose
of winter’s coming. Even in this
sorry excuse for a farmhouse. Even here,
sheltered from the sky, we can imagine it –
the shimmer, how it doubles back on itself,
doubles back, even here, the shimmer.
Even meeting, as it will, the plastic bowl, this
sorry excuse for a cistern, no kind of cenote,
modern receptacle of hurry. It drip-drips
just like a heartbeat, like we are still human,
still animal, still capable of thirst, still bound
to something fluid.

Nov 3, 2013

One of 30-poems-in-30-days