Approximations
Man am I, a woman,
both fellow and mate,
relative desister
from Truth.
Apes, aren’t we? on the shore,
twenty digits and
one poor collective word
for sand.
Wrapped up in a wristwatch
against exagger-
ated eternity –
“My time,”
I simplify. Dust all
becomes, atomised;
ground stuffs that will re-as-
semble
truth plural. Did I say
dead? I father lies
in my womanly way
and live.