I am sand - drifting formlessly, settling briefly;
dusting edges traced clean by housekeeping’s judicious forefinger.
I am sand - black with iron and ****** wrath;
shattering glassily against a wine-stained ceiling.
I am sand - my trespasses turned to pearl;
rippled and flurrying, wedged between sandal-clad toes.
I am sand - porous with desire yet disarmed by possibility;
a fortress on the brink of invasion by the sea.
I am sand - recalled to the desert, claggy with melancholy;
a loping caravan of travail, westward bound.
I am sand - measureless and infinitely uncontainable;
sifting from hour to hour...and life to life.
‘While he mused on the effect of the flowing sands, he was seized from time to time by hallucinations in which he himself began to move with the flow.’
- Kōbō Abe