The passage of shingly winds
on your once thin and smooth back skin
has given your spine,
now chainsawing waters and air as you zero in for prey,
that motion thickness.
Sand gales grate your lips
the glaze of your eyeballs scraped and dulled
by their fiercest carress
and endless rags stream behind your running frame
like dried liana hanging from the arms
of a Khmer God in the summer typhoon.
All curves gone angles.
All angles gone sharper still.
The very hailstones split as they meet
your razor flanks.
You now are this tempered blade,
thicker, keener, colder.