Akasuri

Time grates against my skin
taking away one layer
then another, revealing
a raw, red, newness.

Revelations were once gentle
without the coercion,
the rough nylon mitts,
the edges of a pumice stone.

The minutes yielded
a soft, supple understanding,
a necessary accumulation,
a translucent, olive, glow.

Now, the old pieces of me gather
in piles on the floor,
tiny grey mountains,
stunned and upset, remembering.