if you are caught stranded
alone
on the island
of your dying,
numbed
to the breathing
of a fragile
infant promise—
hoarse, cracked
speechless lake
bubbling, flowing
in the easy
darkness
beneath that
endless
grey shore—
shape yourself then
into a living
vow:

I shall
bear
this
thirst
or ache
for eternity
in the sating.