Always these stones. Stones flying.
I don’t even bother watching out for them
any more. I eat and work, with battered
head, amid the gurgling of a dry fury.
Siege stones, poet stones, biblical stones,
island stones (all kinds of stones)
flow in streams down posterity’s cheeks.
And though there is nothing in them,
nothing of gypsum, minerals or the will
(nothing of stone itself), the avalanche
never stops. They keep pelting me:
hard, low-grade blades
that would even make angels flinch.