The stones are curling, against all probability, against gravity struggling for supremacy.
You know this, that stones are malleable, stuffed in or under or wrapped around
toes
Impediments or monuments, talismans by which to recall pain,
recall spells they claimed to cast
rituals they buried deep.
The stones change shape at will, not something you control although your
fingers
itch to do so, to control a small pebble, control the mountain, control the avalanche.
But long ago stones came and tamed
a stretch of flat land that grew pipe dreams and bloody railroad tracks
Stones that walked and sat and changed their
faces
fled their traces Until only their eyes showed. Finale:
before they walked away stones left you a stony path. A simple hit on the constellations,
a star that refused to point any way but true north. Your
mind
knows that stones curl, the better to listen in, the better to tear apart,
the better to
Flow.