The waterspout has
a spray that quenches like shade
as admirers fondle
their way to forgiveness.
It washes the gritty loneliness from their hands.
Splashes salvation down their throats
thick and warm enough to swim in.
It is a communal bath, tiled by
the green of leaves, brown of bark.
As night crickets call the faithful
to their knees the spout is proud
to please while it beats at the back of the throat
like a baton leading a death march through the woods.
The procession follows quietly,
eager to drown in the possibilities.
Snaking between better judgment
and passion the parade of men
stumble over rocks, crouch beneath
branches, duck behind their denial.
The drum major lean and shirtless
trails deeper into the darkness
immune to the implications
of murder.