Sychar

Sir, give me this water, that I may not thirst
nor come here to draw.
May never leave hurriedly the town's narrow
red dust streets where babies stroke the dry air with fat fists.
May never wake early to race the noontime shadows
past the stillness of sleeping dogs
with flies that congregate in tears.
May never heave through crowds with heavy jar;
the thrumming orchestra of crickets
the only accessory to the music
of a long evaporating moment.
That I may never thirst, nor come here again to draw.

You have nothing to draw with and the well is deep.
The lizards cock their heads
and fix swollen eyes on a
man resting by the well.
Mount Gerazim was shimmering with the glassy heat
I remember because shamed I turned away
(the gulping lizards swallowed by shadowy crevice)
I don't know how anything can ever come to much
now all is ruined.
You have nothing to draw with and the well is deep.

Come see a man who told me all things that I ever did.
the rag shadows of my secret place,
beyond some far hour of forgotten earth.
How could a man have walked the garden
that slopes into tranquility?
Come see a man who told me all things that I ever did.