a letter to (you):

i awoke to
an actuality
for which
i wished up a cure,
in which
i will swallow grains
of
sand
for days on end.
(for you)

until,
these transforming pills
reach the end
of each
(jealous) cornea
(apathetic) capillary
(indecisive) tendon
and it will
weigh
down
my
(overused) diaphram,
ridding my language of
those sighs.
next,halting both
(wandering) feet
and
(opportunistic) hands
to a still, quiet,
sleep.
and
then i will become a
sedimented form
that can

be

because
movement of these
ill-formed parts
create a make-believe
that i can not partake in
if
i
wish
for you to know
the real me.

(statues are monuments
and dwelling places
for the ego.
statues are not opaque,
but transparent.)

i will not last
when you discover
a new satisfaction,
reaching into wet-sand skin
of a malefactor (once in disguise)
and realizing that this
still form
should be
pushed
back
to
the

sea.

(you walk away.)