MOTION BLUR MURAL

 

I could write this piece as a landscape

where it’s always dawn or dusk

                                    never night or noon

where it’s flat and mountainous

where it’s grassy and rocky

where the cliffs are worn away by water

where the sand was forged of the cliffside

infinity’s hourglass / roaring shore / tiny beads of release

 

oh shit you meant like a portrait of the poet?

that one’s a watercolor rainbow in profile

looking lost in thought out over the water

 

wondering when I’ll grow into my voice

wondering when I’ll grow out of my tits

and then there’s you, asking why I didn’t choose vice

as if a moral judgement on my body would purify me?

are you actually asking me to tell you who I am?

can’t I just side with Eliot here and say the person

who began this poem is not the person who will end it?