When you think strong enough, you get something
You don’t mean
And you do: something prized-out,
Splintered, like a rock quarry going
Through you and over you
Like love, and past and on
Like love: whatever arms, legs, head,
Breast-bone, whatever feet and hands you love most,
Most want to live
And die with, are given out as flying
Related rock; are charged
With the life that lives
By means of stone. The body of your lover tries to form
and be
Those six stones. For some reason
They are hurtling, and if you meet them head-on
You will know something nobody means
But her. She is moving at the speed of light
Some place else, and though she passes
Through you like rock-salt, she is still six
And not one.
But neither is the rain
Single, blotting number and stone
With vibrancy; neither is the rain, I tell you,
Man riddled with rocks
And lust:
the rain putting out
Your wretched, sympathetic
Stone-jawed poetic head, its allotted
Fresh bodies falling as you stand
In amongst, falling and more
Than falling falling more
Falling now falling
More than now.
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