I keep returning to the stoney gods,
the ones whose temples are hills
abrupt with rocks not yet fallen
and the shells of roofless cottages.
They pull beauty from the granite storm.
They defy the stunted root
of surfaces, barrow-dumped topsoil
washed away from the bone.
I don’t trust the southern latitudes,
fruit spread above me like stars,
language ripe with wine and implication.
I live where knees genuflect and lock.
I believe in what skins each knuckle
and pray for marrow. Storm-soaked
granite, a twelve-foot menhir propped
against sun and moon when time began,
strict adopted gesture, accidental being
barely changed: trimmed, rough-squared,
dragged somehow to a point of grace,
then winched into place. I believe
in it when the sun nestles like a cap
on the peak, or when the moon rolls
down one side all the days of the month,
catching earth’s rhythm with earth itself.
One shard to run the lightning down
into the heart, to bleed with rain
then look up to trace faces in the stars
and take the stone as my other name.