Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Prospecting

this place thirsts for rain
hot, swollen rain to draw down the dust,
to break the scorching silence

this place swells, bloated
unable to find dignity, its skin
splitting
with summer heat

this is a dry-bones place, host to extended
families of flies, quenching their thirst
by the hundreds, thousands
with our
salt-sweat saliva hot blood
and tears

this place pulses with the hum
of the flies who tenderly
lick
the corners of our eyes,
leave bold welts on the slick of our bellies
where the sweat
drips
down
in nameless rivers

and still
we come, an endless supply of fools
looking for who-knows-what and leaving
disenchanted
an assembly line from
hope
to hopelessness

Rachel Westfall
March 26, 2008

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