Agate, Alyssum, Apricot—
simple pleasures I can still pronounce in this desert.

Love’s only dominion, the clear
well-walked path to drinkable water. I hesitate

to ask for answers, remembering the others forsaken in a basket, garden, well.

There’s no one left to write to
but I’d tell of the tree, its sweet shade

at high noon. The untorn snakeskin I found
while digging for wetness in the sand.

Against the crude mountains, his turned back whittled down by my calls.

I’ve learned to cull want
from wait,

to walk until water appears.