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