Nine Poems

Stones

After three days
I am familiar with stones
how they talk: chirp, clink,
clatter, grumble,
and how they accede,
gripping like molar roots
or giving themselves up
to the rake's sensual tickle,
but most of all
how they endlessly
emerge: a place
seems pure tilth,
fine-grained as coffee,
when slowly,
like a drowned rising,
a pale stone-face
...