sand
Andrew H. Oerke
Sand melts down the hourglass’s
swimsuit-like figure on its own accord,
tips over, and recycles itself
like the Holy Immaculate Word.
The lion of distance kneels
and leaps like a bighorn ram
up the escalator of the wind’s Shazaam.
Sand unloads weather’s U-Haul van
and stores the ocean’s struggling foam sofas.
Finally, dust whirls like a devil,
does a dervish, and returns to sand.
Every grain is heard to sigh:
I fly for a moment,
and like the moment I die.
