The Floods Never Came

                       the floods
                       never came
                                              and
                       the years of plenty
                       perpetrated
                       by pharaoh
                                                                I’m standing . .
                                                               
                                                                 and
                                                                               for miles
                                                                  there’s only dust
                                                                 
                                                                                                                      the exodus
                                                                                                              never happened
                                                                plagues . . .

                                                                have come and gone

                                                                                       famine
                                                                 in my mouth

                      my bones are arid . .
                           
                      my tears run dry
                               
                      tthey carve canyons
                                                             it sticks
                                                               
                                                                to the roof
                                                             of my mouth
                                                                                                               there’s no way out
                                                                                                                            of my sins

                                                                                                               the years of plenty

                                                                                                                 have succumbed
                                                                                                               to years of naught
                                                            no way to get in
                     I'm floating  . .
                                         
                                          like moss

                                  f a c e d o w n

                       along the river's edge

                    g r a s p i n g 

                   at hollow reeds
                   already plucked
                                               
                                                          they make paper
                                                             to tell this story

                                                                even though

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