You can hold my water in your
palms, but like the rubber-edged sword of
millions of ants crawling in distinct lines
tracing your name among the
sidewalk skin of Broad Street i will dissipate
and resume my life of uncockled
leisure within the fruit trees in the
dwarf orchard. I ache for the tinned
dents of the watering can and the feeling you have
when the ground breaks
and my water moves closer
to the sun.