you have been sitting there
for 300 years, all thumbs and eyes
and stuff
in stone

why taper I have forgotten this
the price for a ride

the sweatered dog
a sign for real

I gift you familiar battlements
that habit: your silhouette

halt in my hands
ay

300 years ensconced
visiting my rounds

your eyes are stone
and why

…

embers are not stones, but rocks
that appear to be

swinging parabolically
he says

if I were to beckon
which guard would come

KEEP OUT

I am writing to myself again

perhaps your lap will be
split by the frame

half of your ecstasy mine
and flattened

(and yet

pliable columns
driven through with chain

I is a grapheme
two benches facing a common

shush, shush
shush, shush
shush, shush

…

it equals itself
its remainder, that odd obstacle
isolit

that like that
except here

you will always be in stone
outlined in attention

who is to say
beckoning is any different

lambasting, the form
pages abutting

return
return

so to see yourself
slip away

and hear