She said stones are capable of thought. They had to be: any object
of time. Something about rock's metallic viscera. The Japanese had
electric as a brain, she said. Dementia brought out the poet in your
a fifth hoof over the mouth; flashlights, because they can't keep
the last mystery to what has crushed all else beneath its weightan
that, and comforts a stone in one hand. You remember your own soft
through the terrible, shaky sidewalk. When she laughed, you imagined
else that ascends toward light. Your mother doesn't keep her days
You write her in words to make her permanent, but time untethers
and she will
when you're as old as she is now, slightly senile and reading a diary
Think fossil, think watermark, and think about the stubborn barnacle
that makes a grave
finally, to wander the shifting plates of the planet on your own.
getting locked out of her house. Stand now before the apathetic widows. No use in knocking on the door. Think sleeping oyster. Think coma. Think stone.
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