Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Sand

At what point
Does one arise and
Become
That golden piece
Of sand
That which when moved
Brings and becomes
The flood
Each grain turning
Into itself
And falling
Falling to erase walls
Erase rivers
Erase maps
Erase the pale
Thin
Outline
Of your cheek
Pressed against
The pillow
From the bathroom
It appears to glow
Like silk
I stop to watch you sleep
And wonder
How long