Margaret Atwood
I know I change
have changed
but whose is this vapid face
pitted and vast, rotund
suspended in empty paper
as though in a telescope
the granular moon
I rise from my chair
pulling against gravity
I turn away
and go out into the garden
I revolve among the vegetables,
my head ponderous
reflecting the sun
in shadows from the pocked ravines
cut in my cheeks, my eye-
sockets 2 craters
among the paths
I orbit
the apple trees
white white spinning
stars around me
I am being
eaten away by light
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