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.
*
enough for someone
to want to come along
and break me in half,
rend my halves
to shreds,
grind
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
begin?
Already, our attention lapses;
we know
there won't really be a next time.