future

I wish I had a job,

just for the sheer joy of motoring back

through twilight, as the streets lighten

windows down? volume up?

maybe going home to pieces of me

little toes, shoes as long as my palm

I will love you as my own, for

you are mine and I will be yours.

(you will make me home)

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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.