Sisyphus polished rage pearled purple
with
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
pocket-sized
stone of perpetual despair, a
reminder of gone people, gone things.
And poets pocket the same stones,
picked up
after placid crowds or from river beds
and
gardens where they were kissed and
from
gravestones and deconstructed
walls.
Who of us who hold them now have
not
filled our pockets on walks by the
river?
But, we carry them and carry on.