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
She wears the movement of stars
Around her neck and beads
Of luminous earth fashioned
By her own hand
She speaks of autumn and how the beast
Should not be made to stand down
In green pastures awaiting
The huntsman’s breath hot
Against its leather scruff
Enough’s enough
She says, gathering her skirts
About her and leaving her wits
To dry like butterfly wings
Dewy in their newfound freedom
Whatever you say m’dear
Of course I was listening
I was only taught not to speak
With my mouth full
Photo/Ray Larsen
Román Leão 