it is work
to stay 
to become 
a stone 
  a low wall
 that tempers the 
       time and keeps it
governed 
circumvents 
anything that was ahistorical 
what was real inside the 
mountain?
what mountain really
kept us?

it is work
to say
here, I have found
a stone
and named it
as the stone
I have worked to
find the stone
as the stone has toiled
all alone in the tilled earth
brushed against
the atmosphere 
and brittle boundary
of this coil
could be called
home


when it was work
we knew the sacrament
of it, the blessing of
every single memory
that could countain
its elemental, subterfuge
as the past and what is to come