Nightstone

No man is robbed of stone, of a dead root
Nor of losing
Though the rubbery mouth shouts
Through nights thickness “Stop—Thief—”
Only hope cobbles this thin remembering.
Brushing a thief’s print from my doorway
I would wake
Trapped between a new day’s smell
And the artful manner of you
Smoothing your skirt, or sneezing.

Dreaming, I walked fleshless
Through a robber’s crying
—If you make me stone
I shall bruise you!
And the scent of your body withers
Into morning.

Stone remains
Holding me from the blasphemies
Of hunger.