left boot sole

this year-long rattle in my heel, finally free

oh, little stone! where did you come from?

did you chip off a Czech cobblestone? A Parisian stair?

Maybe you found me outside that coffee shop in Boston.

There’s a streak of green on your side – is it Viennese?

Perhaps it’s Guilford moss, or from the walk in the woods around Oxshott.

you have walked with me, far,

I wish I could put you back.

lithotine

arms draw out

in black, which soaks up light safely

and leaves bright contrast in limestone

I rock, smoothing the surfaces across each other until

perfect.

A touch of acid and gum, the image fizzles

washed away carborundum

resin dust could give you cancer. So could asphaltum.

but etched in stone is family.

carmeline

quieter than you might think

accidents happen. then everyone

wants to know why? all of a sudden

closest of friends, eating up

the delicious morsels of adrenaline tragedy

relishing that impersonal private revelation

gurgle it down and gasp! at their struggle