Dehydration
by John Paul Sherman
There was a man who pricked his heart
On the thorn of an unfilled need,
Who clamped a bandage, crushed the smart,
Refused to let it bleed.
Yet, while fore-stanching bitter blood,
A sequel swell of liguid gall—
Crude tears--impinged; he damned the flood,
Refused to let them fall.
When no moist sigh could crack dry lips,
Nor a memory-dampened moan
Elude such arid censorships,
He felt secure as stone,
Till, on foot in an autumn week,
He heard, along the cobbled way,
A dead leaf scoff. He turned to speak—
...But the wind blew him away.
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