Like stones, I collect them. This one is large, and the surface
pocked and rough. Another one gleams beneath the dust. Some are weighty,
others sharp and flat.
I can make things from the words, like stones. Here a wall, there a
buttress, now and again a road, straight and smooth, paved with the
justso stones it needs to take you places you never knew before.
There I toil, in the sun and the dust, building a careful palace,
building whole cities, while you sit by the lake and watch the view.
Sometimes you take up a stone, and you skip it across the water,
sparkling and defying gravity before it disappears, traceless, leaving
No matter how I practise, my stones just sink.