Here on this dry and waterless terrain
I am content to share my dwelling place
with creatures who, like me, have psyches shaped
by dreams of moisture, visions of sweet rain,
of moisture in whatever form: a trace,
a drop, a tear, a torrent, damp sand scraped
from under a great rock -- but mine the pain,
and mine alone, two distant dreams of grace:
from silken skirts, a slinky spray; or draped,
cascades perhaps, salvation's veil, a grain
of hope for here and now, faith's friendly face
in this dry wilderness the wind has raped.
Grasshopper-mice and lice may share my space,
but not my elevation from disgrace.
Only inordinate sexual desire
from finishing the crossword.