The skin cracks like a pod.
There never is enough water.
Imagine the drip of it,
the small splash, echo
in a tin mug,
the voice of a kindly God.
Sometimes the sudden rush
of fortune. The muncipal pipe bursts, silover crashes to the ground
and the flow has found
a roar of tongues. From the huts,
a congregation: every man women
child for streets around
butts in, with pots,
brass, copper, aluminium,
plastic buckets,
frantic hands
and naked children
Screaming in the liquid sun
their highlights, polished to perfection,
flashing light,
as the blessing sings
over their small bones.
