Stone Harvest
Finally, payment plans!
My sickness comes tonight.
Like a lover she plants
Her premising, promising:
Zukunft is da.
Vergangenheit ist verloren.
I take ten, hang five;
I come into effect.
(Death is colour named Dove.)
Mind breaks open like so much egg;
I will not ask you to my jetty.
This is how you will know you've grown.
New flesh makes words effortless.
Perhaps you did nothing wrong,
Declared ceasefire to self,
Spent days sifting gravel for oyster.
We'll never know.
Eager plants will lean to crookedly
Against sun. Bedroom will always be dirtiest
Because it has most skin.
This brimming house will be your saving grace
In fallows, with quiet voice and yellow spots,
When, at slow drying of your stream within those
Dappled, tail-end hours, you—
Dreaming softly in your dream—
Would turn to granaries of thought.