moving target

26 February 2009

Time is a moving target in its banks--
like dunes I barely own before they shift,
take on a different shape, a different place.
They move into a different time, and I
no longer recognize the clouds or sky
above them, much less this landscape
the river never ceases to mold.

dunes

28 January 2009

I trace the curve of my belly
too many times a day to count
with my eyes. I watch my skin
rise and fall in different places
than it used to, and I wonder
when these dunes will cease
to shift. My thoughts are prone

to solidify more swiftly
than the contours of my breasts--
from moment to moment,
I think, “this shape is It--
this is Me,” and the synapses fire

M-E.

Then the wind picks up,
and the dunes shift again.