Ruth Stands in the Desert

Holding it, for now, and shaping as I hold

Back the urge to throw the mica-littered

Sand into the sun. It’s sand, not infinity—

Likewise I’m the shape of the words you form,

Maybe the most beautiful, maybe a demon,

Maybe a weapon—and with that, I toss

The sand away, high in an arc of grace.

You know what I mean, and what happens:

Me standing in a demented rain of my own making.