Found: the proper distance
Handprints the wind wiped away
Small cone piles where a bird claw raked the tension loose
Like crumbs
From a swath of sand, preimagined
History’s sputter, or granules of myth, rough in places
Rough
And detailed
Color of tawn and if it rains, leather
Color of itself core to surface
Color of reuse
A seablue horizon floats its way up
Cyclops, Einstein, Planet of the Apes, Indiana Jones
The lone woman Betsy Ross sews on Gallileo’s stars
Map of narrative
Chunks, clumps, wads, pieces, specks
Eons of drafts of sand / earth of sand / sky of sand
Deeded sand
Air / sand
A smithereen lands at my feet
Stand back when the shoulder rounds
The corner rounds
Too close if what you saw before / you saw
Meant anything
Comments are closed.