Issue 106, Spring 1988
Poor parched man, we had to squeeze
Dental sponge against your teeth,
So that moisture by degrees
Dribbled to the mouth beneath.
Christmas Day your pupils crossed,
Staring at your nose's tip.
Seeking there the air you lost
Yet still gaped for, dry of lip.
Now you are a bag of ash
Scattered on a coastal ridge,
Where you watched the distant crash,
Ocean on a broken edge.
Death has wiped away each sense;
Fire took muscle, bone, and brains;
Next may rain leach discontents
From your dust, wash what remains
Deeper into damper ground
Till the granules work their way
Down to unseen streams, and bound
Briskly in the water's play;
May you lastly reach the shore,
Joining tide without intent,
Only worried any more
By the currents' argument.