Poethead; a poetry site
The whole of the waiting stone is beige coloured.
It is hiding its silica, their minutiae. Although I
have found dashes of it left as glitter on things,
things like tables, chairs. My own face glitters with it.
I gather up the gaudy granite slivers, they flake like
brittle lizard skin mottling in my hand, there.
I can hold this smooth round pebble, and warm
it through. It is stone silent not budding from, to
but I can feel it’s waiting.
I cannot get into them. Laying the flakes out onto a table,
or holding the fragile layers in my hands, peeling them back
layer from metallic layer.
They are big as skin, bigger than. They’re stone cells,
the living and the not living tissue of stone.
They are the skin cells of stones. They glitter in…
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