Willingly

If there were a thief in this

Poem of the world, would

You listen to her? What if

She were an assassin,

 

Mid-traipse through a calm desert,

Dying with no water

Amid maddening visions

Of pristine red granaries?

 

We are hard as teeth against

Mercy. The dome you built for me

Is running out of air.

If she were here, and hydrated,

 

I think she’d say we’re made

To forsake—never to turn back.

 

Tom Snarsky