Desert Drinking

Never thought of dazzling,
an ethereal bloom grasps me:
it is too an objet for desire,
as shores arise amidst
a caterpillar of light. 

Thirst isn’t in my vocabulary,
since then – I have learnt 
the holding of pouring,
of water not falling
but slicking the eyes. 

My half cup,
the desert drinking then
swimming as insubstantial:
retaining how long it will come
until bursting, shearing, occluding.

The everywhere light solely enlightens. 

Blues is in the moment
not lowered but sinking,
predestined to drinking within
as aqua comes to reminiscence 
and I come to happenstance.