without

moon,

I am speechless—

so I am given

 a dowsing rod.

I walk, each Y end

deep to my wrists

and each twitch

is a word.  Subtle,

my palms

can’t feel it.

I’m not quiet

quiet enough.

I am blind.

could you spare

the dust of your face?

I want to dip my rod

in you.  I want

to walk in a long row

of willow and listen

to them draw water,

feel my feet listen,

feel my knees,

my navel,

my breasts listen.  I want

to drop

 at the sudden

pull of it

 all out

in the middle

of know

wear

and dig repentant

for my thirst

and my blind

mouth…

with your powder

and this rod

and willow water:

mud

to rub against my tongue

and grow it again

word by word