The sky is full of stone
the pure joy of stone —
I sit under these cold
mechanics of stars
where everything erodes
and everyone leaves,
a silvery web waving
beneath my ribs,
still grasping life
at its four corners,
its invisible host
still weaving,
still wanting —
despite all prejudice.
I come to the stone
and the stone responds,
it bends its tender arcs
over despair and loss,
fill my palms
with a quiet hunger
for a place to enter
and in which to feel —
for the soul sometimes
has bandaged angles
speech cannot heal
while touch — is all.
I lean against the stone
for there is nothing to say
there never has been —
and let it finally carry.
The city is full of people
I do not see — a child
I haven’t named
a man I never kissed.
Yet after so many years,
a stranger is walking towards me
— desired.
Solider things arise.
The stony sky is mine.

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