Wednesday, July 13, 2011

rocks, scissors, paper—stoned

rocks, scissors, paper—stoned

my morning mind was filled with you—
your marble-statue hands,
your ears carved out of alabaster,
your teeth exposed in a granite smile—

i shuddered warm at your being only there
in the museum of my mind at morning—
us separated by miles of asphalt and states—
sleeping and waking, pining and musing

and i offer only cardboard idols
to the marble statue you—
white and smooth as stone rubbed
by the hands of a sincere sculptor—not me—

me—in my cinder-block world—
polishing nothing—rubbing only my eyes—
cutting through ribbons like string
holding fresh fish in brown brown paper—

but you are no statue—you—breathing
without giving dust a second thought
as it stirs from your footfall across carpet
covering the concrete floors of rooms without me—

even when i dream the yellow and red and blue
are surrounded by cinder-block walls
cold ivory tile and a black black sky
while you are mere hologram—fairy—

and i am pelted by stones—stoned by the rubble
of libraries and museums crumbling from the weight
of waiting for serpentine ivy—to embrace the carving
of men who crave the sweet smell of granite dust on the tongue

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