Lips are dry from the lungs thirst for air.
Mop up patches and remember water.
Swimming in it, floating, eating it.
A full glass tips behind my mouth where thoughts balance but do not move
and nothing happens.
I breath in light,
and feel the crisp incandescent kiss pucker and retract,
sucked up into the lamp, and into the wall,
off to a factory in Oak Hill.
Tennessee's rusted water streams out of the Mississippi's pockets.
I leach out to breath in the water molecules spraying amid the air
like frogging snow flakes.
Gasping cell's in a sponged throat digest wood, lick the desk
and drink muddled air with a straw.
Eventually I will watch the glass, see it filled and emptied, but for now
I am lazy.
Children in forgotten tubs swim in heat and dirt and brush,
the milk of their mothers dry and traded by child bearing markets,
milk exchanged for bone.
Two cents the difference.
Buckets fill with tears that turn over in the ocean behind open doors,too open.
A mother's dream of drowning her child in thirst.
Cold breasts bare and swollen, red and empty.
The milk of the world flowing away in heaven,
falling off the edge of the continent,
sipped up by the stars, drunk, heavy, and afloat.
Bloated dancers in vacuumed sealed taps,
step on bubble rap, the crackling laughter
udders out from air filled sandwich bags.
The sky too salty to drink.
Bottled water is made, sold, and purified by osmosis
machines made out of oil and coal. Water is lies,
Tesla wanted to shared it.
Scuba diving on dry land and above ocean levels with pours
connected to tubes, pours tied to mountains peaks by
rusted and unused rail ways. Breathing in a neighbors pours,
eating a neighbors liquid breath. Sick, surrounded,
alone because always thirsty. always. Even when not.
