Friday, September 24, 2021


Thirty seven years, 
and I'm still 
this mysterious: 

mid-stream, I'm liable to break up 
into ripples; 

each night, 
each one fords a different 
lonely dream. 


O, to be beautiful 
enough for someone 

to want to come along
and break me in half, 

rend my halves 
to shreds, 

the shreds to dust, 

and then fan 
the fine powder cloud
over the sea. 

"Let's see you rise up 
from these deaths," 
they might say, 

I like to imagine, purely 
out of jealousy.

How many tiny changes 
until this body isn't mine?

Until the world 
as I know it ceases 
to exist? 

When did this revolution

Already, our attention lapses; 
we know

there won't really be a next time.