Alone at the edge of the sea
he sets the stone in place. Always
the last stone
the stone that has fallen
the broken stone for which there is no use.
His shoulders and the hills are a community now,
when he walks
his shadow loses itself in the grass.
Comes to a crossroads and spins till his bones
fall down in a heap.
From wind and sparrow
he gets his bearings;
the horizons pass over him like clouds.
A stranger gives him his cloak, from its holes
he patches together a family.
A neighbor brings him his bowl, he knows
the ways of clay.
The sun sends down its light, so much seed
on good field and bad.
The moon floats in his eyes,
he is learning to see in the night.
The earth has taken him in like a rain,
and when he puts out his hands to the fire,
it runs under his skin like water.
This was her gift, she knew the touch of his hands.
Which is the lighter, the heavier,
the earth that gives, the earth that receives?
He has asked to be planted in the poorest of soil,
like a crop
she watches his days flower and season and fall.
This is her betrothed;
hard the bed that will have no roof
whose blankets are leaves that fall like coins
whose nights stretch like a moon
that grows full only to empty its pockets for nothing.
Who is the richer,
the poorer, the bride, the bridegroom?
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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