The Well is Dry

The clock says three-fourteen, a digital lie.

I wake with a throat that is splintered and dry.

My mouth is a room full of insulation and lint,

desperate for even a cold, metal hint

of the tap or the rain or the condensation's drip.

I reach for the nightstand, a ghost of a grip,

but the glass is a hollow of glass and of dust,

a circle of grit and a layer of crust.

My tongue is a stamp that’s been licked for too long,

stuck to the roof where the words all go wrong.

I’m tasting the attic, the years, and the heat,

staring at shadows and tangled-up sheet.