Broken things
sing story,

geology of breccia,
Arthurian romance, a stone
to stumble on
yet again.
Again the dream
of houses where,
the blond sunlight invading,
woodshed and Alaska,
hold it steady, the pan too full.

Time is what must get answered
but never soon, the light
above the door comes on,
a voice gentle as the fingertip
tap on the window glass says
I was born here can I come in?

Absurd pilgrim, to think
and to think you can ever leave
a place you have been,

places stick, you are their sum
stumbling through the shattered
fragments of the new.

The stone rested there.
Pick up your lute or flute
or telescope and try
to make a song of it,
an image we can see–
that would be brave, bold
as an engine,
sweet as the stones
of ancient Athens
scattered in your backyard.

10 October 2022