A quiver tree had grown through his heart,
roots had searched out the seep
of the last of his love
and left him desiccated.
I had roamed his body
seeking satisfaction too,
but found myself empty-handed.
A gecko had written messages
in scuttled footprints, tail swept a caution
behind them - these were clues to follow -
a witness to this kokerboom's arcane arts
that slaked a thirst in a man
and drank him dry
upon this defeated ground
of hidden diamonds.
The water had departed.
I waited for a fog to descend.
His blood drawn up
to their succulent alien hands
that plead to the panorama of a sky
that will not answer with its rain.
A desert forest of these trees;
a sand-god's army of them,
their sulphur-yellow blooms offered up,
their lucky misfortune,
his unlucky fortune -
when I discovered him
there was nothing remaining of him to save.