Dry
they live in an iron nest
under a back window
they have begun to dream
the way threadbare drapes will
in too much sunlight
scorched by sky
blooms crumple like straw hats
reach up bent by an internal smolder
as if the air were a cistern
but the sky is a dry bed today
sprinkled water has no effect
i expect to see stringy stems
swell into firm aqueducts
but the newly doused droop the more
as if water were a flame
in a beached throat
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