A Poem for Daphne, No. 68
The sand dunes on this inlet seem a living person
Who has been changed, as if he were a manuscript
That could be revised and revised until
Every realized moment was realized.
The sand dunes have perfect curves and eyes.
Makes one believe the blowing of the wind
Is the fate we need, not belief,
To shape us into perfect shapes like sand dunes.
But is not the wind that shaped
The buried rivers within our flesh.
It was not rain, water, any natural thing.
Wind is real, but what shaped us is
Unreal, our own invention, words.
We send up smoke screens to diminish.
Duane Locke
Posted over on FZQ
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