We are only the breeze in a dancer’s skirt,
an explosion of dust, a face in the soapstone,
a rustle among weeds, the squeak
of a rocker where the old ones strung out
their years in story. It’s mashed potatoes
and a gravy boat. It’s goosebumps seeing
a lemony lion in The Peaceable Kingdom
or your curled lips popping to keep time
with Parker at Birdland. A storm can travel
inland, shaving the dunes and undoing
the equipoise between events. If this is to be
a swan song, let it be plain vanilla
engineered so richly it fills you. One man’s
dune is another’s desert, a good read
is another’s mouth washed out with soap.