Enchanted Beach with Three Fluid Graces

All things begin from the spindle,

we say—life spun from graces.

I grew like rain from rumbles of my parents’

cloud, a dark dawn, admitting growth.

In the beginning, I squeeze into existence with a head,

white, silhouette-like—formed from

the stomach of the hard earth on a farther

landscape; face formed in a hole, a body merging

into visibility. The last war of my body

was unscathed, admitting the shapes of various

dances. The second grace, where I am a boy seeking

existential relevance, my visage; like a landscape

with an equestrian man with the body of dust

pursuing the horse of  his identity—relevance-seeking.

The thread of my life, stretched to the doorsill

of disappearance, the length of my language

nearing a silence. I am the last body rhyming

with the earth—becoming more illusion than truth.

Holding onto the edge of my thread, bowing to the ache

of an empty body, my fingers grip the edge of my cloth.

Nature becomes a skull.