by Kim Keith
Shimmy-shake lifted on a flute
and winding relentless down dunes:
side to side infinity glide sifting through.
But murder is not silent—it rattles and spits
a venomous tune of rustic diamonds
and arrowheads. Darting.
slower now; arrogant muscle
as a tense specimen seething like eight
raised up a few degrees, tilted
to a blood orange sky. Quickening.
Like sand flowing southerly
and instinctual, patterned
only after scales and rough patches
of grass scrubbed into the bleak
heat and rubbed along the belly
coarsely unyielding to time
or warnings or the tumbleweeds.
swallowing eternity to splinter off pieces
along the way. And spring-retract
back into the hole to coil again.
Molt away, grow a new face
and live potent as only death can.