Winter 1985 • Vol. VII No. 1 Poetry |

Point of Rocks, Texas

The stones in my heart do not recognize your name. The lizard poking his head out of a crack considers us both strangers.   This wide terrain, like a gray-green bottom of an ocean, gives no sign.   If we have been here since whatever blow it was toppled these boulders, if we are brief as lightning in the arrow-shaped wisp of cloud—on top of this peak, there are no years. A single mound rises off the plain.   There I would make my house, you say, pointing. And I want to take the hand that points and build with it. Place it against my eyes, lips, heart, make a roof. If each day history were a new sentence— but then what would happen to the rocks, the trees? From this distance every storm looks like a simple stripe.

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