I 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.
II 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.
III 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.
IV 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.