my body is filled with rigorous moisture:
rainwater which keeps my lips wet
and my mouth dehydrated—
every chance i get i let some out
like a spigot watering dry March grass
whether it needs it or not.

there is only so much i can hold
before i can a place to release these waters
and make something more fertile—
the faucet knobs turn at the bar
when my eyes are thick and red
because her tilled plot of land is dry and thirsty.

i have a contract with a private owner
and she gets exclusive rights to my moisture.

but now i'm bottling it up,
saving it
for a drought
because there is enough rain in the air
where i am not needed:
seven days—
there will be back-ups
and desires to burst up until there is no more rain:

only beaches.

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