I was then ready to count stones.
Bricks inlaid in walls, a fireplace, some
odd-blocks where either new black-top
layers failed or there was an effort to
preserve. Others were between teeth, under
arms, on the radio. Chatty-details each
day like boats docking, waves cracked
open, exposing silt. Smooth blocks beneath
the song of water. There was a chain
holding them together at each joint:
fatty-pastes, rain-clogs. I kept count of
successions from sea to sky to the sun
boiling them red. The stones then
turned in my pockets, rotating into
my mouth. New methods grew from dusk.
I derived by dividing: wall by ash.
