He is in a place
where there is nothing to do all day
but lift small stones
that keep rolling over his legs.
They have grown smooth
with the touch of his fingers.
For as far as he can see
there is only slate
and the small hump of a grinding machine
on the rim of his pit.
He has forgotten thirst.
Toward the end of that year
he decides to talk to the rocks
in their own language.
Chuck, chuck. Padunk. Glock.
No answer. He remembers an old joke.
The next stone he picks up
he calls mother. The next is father.
He gives them both a bird
and tosses them over his shoulder.
The grinding machine stops
to listen. He is getting excited.
Eyes, he shrieks. Garden.
Carburetor. Toward nightfall
the stones have begun to line up
for names. They knock together
and chuckle. On the seventh morning
he lies back and listens
to their deepthroated
hymn of praise.
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