These cavity-permeated rocks were once kelps and sponge,
Salt and waves grown into their muscles and bones.
In their instinctive intimacy with water, they cannot hide their memory of home.
Border-crossers, bracketed in between two opposing waves
Of ocean and land, they have never learned how to roll;
No matter how distinctive, they are not of any kind.
A hill is formed at their remotely possible curves, shins to shoulders, feet on collarbones,
As if eggs are piled up, glued by droppings that fertilize the grasses.
In the cornucopias, grasses raise their blades and play in warm breezes,
Tickling the fossilized nerves of the stones.
Human beings have never been part of all this, and there were times
When people posed in front of them, and now they watch distantly,
Rarely framing their faces with the holes.
Yes, what else is worthy of memory except for the texture of one’s own?
Sept. 11, 2010