Clean Water

He drinks the water because he is thirsty:
Bent down on his knees
Among the thistle and splintered grass. Scooping
with a cupped hand from between the brown stones.
Tonight he will be sick,
His stomach raked raw from disease
He knows this,
But his throat is dry with dust
And the water,
Translucent in his unwashed palm,
Despite it all,
Is cool against his cracked lips