atlas—
your shoulders
crack and crumble;
dust and dirt fall from
the corners of your
aching joints; you are
ageing like stone.
your body, quivering,
is not made
of marble,
but the fissures
like tree roots on
your arms glimmer
gold and blue
and green—and
you are forced to
stand still, tall,
sturdy; as if
you were nothing
but a pillar,
reaching up to
heaven, grounded
forever to the earth.
atlas—
the weight of the
world is an anchor
on the curve of
your spine.
shaking, shaking,
like the scattered
rings of saturn—
oscillating.
atlas—
collapse.
atlas—
crumble, fragment;
dream of feathers
and dust and billowing
air, and all that is
light and gentle—
and melt.
atlas—
loosen your fingertips,
let the world slip
from your shivering
hands.
atlas—
even stone
can turn to dust.
atlas—
disintegrate.