There is a pulsing in the deep

grain. I lay my cheek to cold

abrasion, feel the crystal rub of it,

filling my palm, heavy with time.

It takes my warmth, takes flesh

from bone. Greedy, it worms

inward, carrying a wind that cuts

and cries, like a bird soaring

across glaciers, looking for fire.

It speaks of its birth in a sea

of bodies falling, falling, stars

to sand, and in the press of decay,

lays down the future. I heft it;

fingers curl and turn making

a stone to build a church or rock

to kill a man.

First published in Lumb 2015 on www.lulu.com