The words are not here. Are they buried deep?
Not even green circles in a landscape
Of dust. Not even droplets seep.
Words are missing. Made their retreat.
Can I dowse this desert? Prime this dry well?
Words do not answer. Words do not tell.
Can I chant, incant, lay myself bare?
I haven’t a song. I haven’t a prayer.
This rhythm is nonsense. The foliage sparse.
What witch wail can lift this curse?
Charlatan, not priest, crying in this waste,
I choke out syllables. I poetaste.
Out of this drained spring, may the need
Itself fulfill. This is my screed.