by Dana Ress
The poison awful round for round
The sound they spill the counter still.
Not the salt that snows your plate.
No brilliant strokes prepared to fade.
Stones are that, this falters none.
Your hands are stone are less than none.
If morning ever lifts its lid
May light be spilled now just to still.
May autumn pause may fail to draw
A better postcard face and let
Each stone make hard the ground you walk
Each morning, evening, never stops.
