Boards crossed and fallen, bleached
bonelike, cover an old shaft. Red
letters flaked and raw give the impression
of no trespass. I am parched, drawn
to water. On the ash-colored earth

I find remnants of a bucket,
a few slats still banded. Not watertight
but formed enough to quench
if eased down and up with a steady rope.

I smell the water. Hear it drip
from slick, dark, porous walls.
There might have been a death
here. A drowning. There might have been
poison. If I pry the barrier apart splinter
by splinter, rust from rusted, will
there really be water? Or bottomless
need, dangerous as riptides?