Piles of Grains of Sand

Along the city’s second longest street

At the end of its second longest month

Walked a woman, in plaid,

Lugging an incongruous antique lamp

Toward the sun.

In the desert, the dunes,

The piles of grains of sand,

Are constantly rearranged, 

Redistributed, reconciled by the winds--

Are, in short, in flux--

Are never what they once were, 

And never will be again.

When the wind’s favor, for a while,

Aggrandizes a particular pile,

Does it look down upon its fellows?

Does it call itself a king, and proclaim, 

“Bow before me, for I am the mightiest, 

The grainiest, the sandiest

Of all possible piles of grains of sand;

For I have, I am more of nothing

Than you will ever understand”?