If it was there in the beginning no one noticed.
Even the house has given up.  One corner skidding
off to god-knows-where.  
The sun spills its feral light, drips out
like a stuck sore over the carcass of a dog whose bones whistle the song of the dead.      It is morning
and I watch you eat a bowl of cornflakes as the rain turns to snow, and the snow turns to the dog and commands him to stay.  

Somewhere there is a stone inside a stone.
I found one in my driveway; some birds were kicking it around.
I asked if I could join them.
One lifted its wing and I crawled under.
As I picked the lice out from its black
feathers the stone opened up to reveal another stone.
“We find these things in the belly of the earth” they kept saying.
This was on a Thursday.  It was beginning to rain.
“All the fullness of time cannot reveal the mystery of the stone--
A stone always hides another stone.”
I found this tattooed in the armpit of the bird.

Draw the stone closer. Pass it from your hand
to hers. Roll it between your palms.
Watch as the sparks flash across the ceiling.
     In the long history of the stone
the stone is the only constant.  Even now
the stone rises
replacing the setting sun
with the image of a hand sinking into
A stone.

As a kid in the backyard at night
Susie and I watched them fall.
She approached one cautiously
from behind and poked it
with a stick.  To our surprise
the stone didn’t react in anger
but opened up like a flower
and in she climbed.
The stone
blossoming in the terrible
light of the moon.