Made of gravel, sand, rock,
Streets that lead somewhere
Or nowhere -like the corner of the eye,
Or the edge of the table.

Made of trunks that uphold trees,
The thick stems of sunflowers,
Or the strings that hold
This life together; like thin
Blades of grass that break
Under shoes.

Some souls hang like curtains
Others flail,
They are feathers.

Made of salt and copper,
Bones and skin like a cloth,
Holding fantasies from scattering
Or floating away like
A lost strand of hair.

Made of…
After the wind takes its pick.


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