My desire is to cast off old clothes, rise like a belly dancer's navel in seduction against the tasseled gray but instead I write to console myself, highlighting what I chose. Each year teaches me how sand shifts, and widens craters overnight, reminds me of both its and life's frailty. My soul shouts words are whips,and wedge open the sky-colored flowers, permits the flayed stems to utter what the truth is. A clock always ticks, voices take over my mind, I cannot make them leave, and they rasp the air. Old words sit on lush velvet grouped near marble, elevate upturned smile. Old eyes still wrinkle. What does it mean these voices hidden in poetry? I speak and these words repeat my words, I raise my wet fist, and they raise theirs in retreat. I'm a native Appalachian from North Carolina transplanted to South Carolina. My garb consists of aprons with watermelon pockets, blue ink is the blood that flows through my veins, and I'm double jointed. In addition a love of