The Persistence of Dust [poema]

Across the weary river,
a ragged stand stands silent
sentinel to the current turning backward,
and shallows that grow by the day.

Pilgrims, driven by craving,
migrate from moribund districts,
and fight their way up concrete streams
to half-remembered city streets.

Soon, all will gladly grant gold
for a single drink. Even foaming dogs
know the word for the fear of water;
what shall we call the trepidation

That the rains are not coming back;
or upon returning, might wash us all out to sea?
Thirst-mad and searching for refuge,
we dream of where rivers still

Rail and carve at the primeval gorge.
Clawing at the dry veins of the continent,
diviners attack the ground with the intensity
of steam-driven machines.

Our future now rests and depends
on the indifference of clouds,
that they may suffer us a shower;

The unearned forgiveness of forest;
and an eternal vigilance
against the persistence
of dust.

Photo/Ray Larsen