A Potential Dust Bowl

On Sunday it dripped water
from the sky faucets in the
upper dome above. The father who watered
the garden below made fruit
rooted deep in humid chocolate earth.
What will we eat with the first layer of
topsoil leaves the bedrock without moist blanket,
walks away?

Will we eat each other, small pets——
or perhaps eat books with mayonnaise
mustard and ketchup?
Send for me by mail and
if you lick the envelope
the postal service will carry you
across fog-filled oceans and fields,
fields with woolen sheep that sweetly reek
of sweat and birth fluids, sour and biting;
I will inhale, eat again.