07-30-2011, 08:46 AM
My friend the camel learned to fly in the wasteland. He
was golden with water dreams, but pockmarked
from the toes down and across his unshadowed page.
I didn’t know how to drink without a tongue and he
had forgotten how to be a cup.
We learned in grey and salt. He would stamp on my spit
until it ran greening into parchment cracks or
– slitherwise as the taipan –
tricked the grass into bloom.
I watched him hollow, stretch, thin, sway,
muddy and cough. Sunsets tripped over his brow,
worn now to wax-bright whispering.
I found wings on the redgum’s bank, fluttering
out of waterlily reach. I frightened them, but he was close
behind to soothe. They tapped his shoulders and he smiled
his last drink for me.
was golden with water dreams, but pockmarked
from the toes down and across his unshadowed page.
I didn’t know how to drink without a tongue and he
had forgotten how to be a cup.
We learned in grey and salt. He would stamp on my spit
until it ran greening into parchment cracks or
– slitherwise as the taipan –
tricked the grass into bloom.
I watched him hollow, stretch, thin, sway,
muddy and cough. Sunsets tripped over his brow,
worn now to wax-bright whispering.
I found wings on the redgum’s bank, fluttering
out of waterlily reach. I frightened them, but he was close
behind to soothe. They tapped his shoulders and he smiled
his last drink for me.
It could be worse