water of many places
these words come with arms
and damn us to remember
but not to be faithful
I don’t have to walk miles to draw deeply of the well; it measures out by the exterior wall by no more than 8 feet, drops down to 132 and the pump sits at 121; during a blistering drought, the water level was 25 feet below ground surface — and I have no idea why these numbers are so significant.
Source a stream — you know, the one that calls upon the juniper blue hard berries to season the tongue: offer up your prayers:
— Gin is an endless game, standing tall in a highball glass, thick lipped for memories prickly in the bitters —
Vodka is almost of equal measure, but prefers a more elegant fluting in inversed triangles, a laying out flat sheeted, unless the moment draws into a silent and alone awakening — but truth is never a sip away, you’ve said —
but I don’t believe you because Tequila pours a mean-for-happy-streak, distills unto a slow death — and that worm is bottom-bottle placed with good reason;
maybe if I had bothered to consider it, in its pickled death, I might understand why you are now hooked to another type of bottle —
and your numbers silver blue line blip across this black screen.
Are you still thirsty and thirsting, as I am — I can draw water easily,
but can’t hold it in my hands and it damns us to remember and never forget, how we can never be faithful — to life or love — all we are are slaves to the names and numbers engraved on stones —
and neither one of us can walk on water.