Some Nonsense About Clarity

I speak another language 

I step among stones 

choose my words so carefully 

like searching for perfect pebbles on the shore’s knife-edge 

selecting few and rejecting many 

They must be weighty, not too sharp

and never too round or dull 

aiming always to keep it brief 

light enough to carry 

dense upon the palm 

I am at a loss as to why

this never yields the desired response 

Am I a superstitious lunatic inspecting my runes? 

believing I can bring the rains 

I make patterns in the sand 

in its ubiquitous, pervasive grains 

permeable to the impending sea 

I stand knee deep 

driveling some nonsense about clarity 

in devotional tongues 


sand & pebbles fall from my mouth

and the tide draws them back in to an endless churning ocean of gibberish 

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