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