Cliff Dweller

Maybe I am a cliff dweller, 

blind-eyed from the sparkling sea

with walls completely covered

by fingers printed in paint.

Maybe I go out walking

with my knobby old knees

and my flashing white teeth

and my shining-bright eyes

set in my craggy aged face.

And maybe the world is new

and the moon

is an egg in the sky:

a tide-bringer and wave-maker

with a face smooth

as mine once was

when I would taste the air

and it was

as sweet as wine.