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.