Sisyphus polished rage pearled purple
iridescent layers of loss rough to the
touch. He did not heave
some slipping century smoothed,
huge knuckle crunching boulder,
but bent double around a
stone of perpetual despair, a
reminder of gone people, gone things.
And poets pocket the same stones,
after placid crowds or from river beds
gardens where they were kissed and
gravestones and deconstructed
Who of us who hold them now have
filled our pockets on walks by the
But, we carry them and carry on.