YOU AND I

you are small in
the white-hot palm of
the afternoon and
listening

thirty miles from water
but still
the ghost of the
drowned boy sings

we have spent
too many days here
you and i
in this scorched land of
false prophets and
empty prophecies

we have walked in every direction
and found nothing but
barren fields

we have dug where the bones
were buried
and uncovered only
pale blue stones

and there is no rain here
there is only this
numb waiting for rain

there is only
your sister raped and then
there are only
her tears

a small bitter flood
before the season of
famine begins

THE SMALL SOUND A MAN MIGHT MAKE

but out here
in the wide open spaces
there is no room for
belief

there are the
ones hanged as witches
and the ones drowned as heretics
and the ones burned as infidels
and in between each lifeless body
is the small sound a
man might make if
he were forgiven

listen close enough and
the voice becomes
your own

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