Standing Stones
They grow out of our minds.
They excavate the past
with the jaw bones of concussed elks,
time is not in them,
it is only we who shimmer then disappear.
Wind and a cold moonlight
carves them still.
They are the blunt teeth
of an endless angry sky.
The undead
deadness of their weight
anchors the soil
keeps it from flying away.
If we let them they will ask of us,
lead us to recall the dust
in our green bones.
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