I'm
six
curving
latitudes
north of Sahara
an arm's length from the kitchen sink
we're sixty per cent water but we still have to drink
I see antelope skulls grimace
I look at the tap
dehydrate
whispers
a
voice
Don't
use
that glass
for water
it's wasted effort
you could break it make it a knife
there's the point leave Hamlet's question to burn on the stove
when you've bled out water-percentage lowers then turkey-faced vultures will drink your blood
monsoon rains resuscitate dried out cacti not you
I'm in a kitchen sink drama
a self-imposed drought
break the spell
turn on
the
tap
