I’s done bathed in fetid stagnant water.
Water shallow and not enough to die in or live on.
And it stank.
It tells stories about lonliness and its attribute of not being able to quench a desert thirst.
Only if it had a deeper mold.
But the red clay will only give a rut, a run, a wishbone thin relief in the even earthen home where it lay still and smelly.
Like a smile thats really a cold rictus on the face of a man dead from over consumption of Aztec flat bread mold.
From a distance its glassine surfaces only movement is the reflection of migrant fat cotton clouds hung in the sky slowly making love to its surface.
And for a moment the dreams of evaporation and re gathering cumulus are enough to hold the burlap texture of reality at bay.
It craves to be unscented and not still and inches deep with no life to support or to birth.
It yearns to be drunk.
It craves mammalian lips, tongue and gullet.
It wants to be mangled apart into its constituent pieces by high Ph gastric acid fluids.
Its momentary home the stomach of a Turkey vulture.
To be nourishment like the living waters its heard of would become a heaven for it so real.
Its one of the few things whose happy goal while in the coil is to be gone; to be no more.
And so it waste in unevaporated stupor unable to reach without arms or travel with no feets.