Dry. The wind is parched by the wind.
The stars are machines whose needlepoints
Stab through the throat. Crazed by thirst,
That dog must be killed. Don't cry. Please don't.
It's a waste of water. Yes, I know
The sand is hotter than you can stand,
But, surely, since we have come this far. . . .
2
You'd be surprised
How the body endures
Suffering. What else can it do?
Oh, the mind. That's different. Close your eyes,
And just keep going. Did I ever tell
You stories of Cortez, Ghenghis Khan,
And Hannibal--quite ordinary men?
If we stop now, it will be hard in
The morning. Think of the risk of sun.
3
I'm sorry I said that. Concentrate
On images and dreams, on wanted things
Like streams, springs, and rivulets. . . .
It makes it worse? Think of nothing, then,
But the blood that flows from head to foot
And back, of the brain's banked oxygen,
Of how footfall must follow tread,
If you will it to. You can stand the pain.
Do it for my sake. I ask again.
4
I think the path has become obscure.
The map's inaccurate. I cannot read
The compass because the flashlight's failed,
And we're out of matches. Besides, I think
It was off last time. It's hard to be sure.
Have faith in me. Have faith in me.
Think of all those who have gone before.
5
There must be a country somewhere right now
Of rain, of snow, of golden wind
Where in the rushes, all that play
of watery hazards takes the mind.
And that must be the country of joy,
That country that we will never find.
Or perhaps we will. Now we must rest,
Before the sand makes us blind.
6
Only so many miles to go,
And ages in which to do it. So
I like to think. The dog is dead.
I swear
There should be water soon.
We must wait. And wait. The sun's too high.
We'll begin again at the end of day.
7
My darling,
Not to have made it is
To kill, and kill,
And be killed again.
Now, only your body lies
In my bodiless arms,
So dead, so still,
And there is the oasis, up ahead.
~Howard Moss
