17.3.12

weak wrist

down through the dunes to the falling rocks. the rocks already thick in their unmoving stance. the hills winding up into fog. my body slowly easing into longer sighs, the growing pain of a child in my shoulders & knees. i catch my face in the glass flecked with seeds of rain water. he/she/they are older now. it's been some time. their hands are for building, they know, but usually they hesitate "this weak wrist / this contradictory body."