of rock. His arms are a
chisel. As he swivels
he chips off a piece. But not
square and neat. The jagged edge

scratches his head. The more he
sheds of the stone the smaller
it stands, until the rock fits
in his hands. It could have been

Washington or Lincoln. He's thinking
in color that went from red to yell
her. He just skips it now. But it doesn’t
bounce. Not part of the water, it sinks

down to the bottom. Living in a black
cave, a watery stave, life dances around
it. But home is the desert.