Sand
I have a tone inside me
that has not been sounded. Or only once
or twice. Once she went straight to the center
of me, once she could have walked through me
like a tunnel. She could have seen sky
on the other side of me.
I could have washed my hands in sand,
then touched her, turned her to sand.
I’m the opposite of Midas: I want to touch
what’s returning to earth.
--The Journal, rpt. in Body Painting
