This is where the dry people live, so poor there’s nothing to finger in pockets save their cracked fingertips, pleated, rugose. Here, the palest eyes shutter tight against noon, all mirrors covered in mourning for moist breaths lost at each exhalation. The desert of no-touch, every body wrapped within a sheet of plastic. Protected, here. These boundaries. Dry people, so thirsty they cannot think. Parched not quenched as they drink it in with eyes, not mouths.