on our fingers,
six layers of skin
because
our hands
are made to touch
*
my daughter
picks a small stone
from the parking lot
and puts it
in her mouth
*
how do we know
what is real?
the stone
in the mouth
smooth and gritty and cold
*
the days
are so short.
they turn
into years
that are so, so short
*
and have we touched
enough?
the fingers
still have much
skin left
*
I am being
eroded
but you can’t see …
it’s all inside
the canyons deepening
*
I used to rush
to fill in
emptiness—
small stones
sinking into a pond
*
already
I have said
too much.
