of stone. As sand slips through
a clenched hand. With nothing
to grasp onto but a fist of lies,

whirling around horseflies, biting
tight bronzed thighs. The welts are
the size of dimes. You can't melt

stone casting a light on the face
of a rock.  A flock of gulls,
circling for crumbs scattered on

the shore. This wore the azure
down till the red drowned into
the brine. Lost over the horizon

as a herd of bison on the African
planes, after the November
rain.