With each moon passing I sink
into the sand some,
and then some more. Secretly, in
the mirror,
I rearrange my face: scrub down
dead skin;
rub smooth, worried lines.
Counting grains, I try to plot a
parabola curve
of decay.
Where on this map is
half-life? Where, entropy?
I finger contours uneasily:
search hills
for hidden valleys.
With each moon passing, the
topography shifts.
The probable and impossible
dissolve soundlessly
into each other; and my maps are
rendered obsolete.
Read more of Dee Rimbaud's
poetry
Check out Dee
Rimbaud's books
Return to Main Menu