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?