The Dry Well Runs Deep

A small sonnet for the small hours.

---

The dry well runs deep on the crimson shore

I looked on your face and felt nothing, yes

It was a long night gone. Look up; the grey

Sky broils with its heavy load as the ship -

Wait, I go too far. First the rushes filled

The silence. Your face nestled in the dark,

Something forgotten? Yes. Throat stuck shut. How

Can you sit so quietly while it burns?

Eyes drawn to the flame, the flaming tanker

On the waves spilling its sickly cargo

Pick your poison. Brine and death in the air,

In the water, in the mind. Where is the rain?

Such dreams are common nonsense. A sleepless

Fever, I’m sure. Pass the bottle. No more.