Heavy as Stone


Footholds on the wall fill in

like skittish gull prints at low tide.

All form vanishes into liquid,

all liquid cements into form.

I have climbed over stones larger

than the world. I have cradled egos

in crooks of trees that brushed against

the void, then crumbled into dust.

Fluorescent meadows feed throngs

of cattle and sheep. Bells punctuate

the air with an abstract melody.

Soon birds will echo it as they nest.


I have built altars larger than the world.

I have recorded the voices of angels

in my sleep: Fear not. Abandon yourself to the road

less traveled. Cultivate simplicity. Harvest joy.

The wall divides this life from the next.

Footholds have vanished. Waters wash

over the surface like mountain streams.

I catapult into the future, through solid air.

Starlings flutter, lie dead in the gutter.

The sky will not buoy them. The Earth

claims its own. There is no joy on the mountain.

I contemplate simplicity, heavy as stone.

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