Something’s remains refused
by death, learning to spread; clustered, buckling
in thin grit. Cling
and be low, be
sparse as moments of wholeness, treasured
and severe. Scrapings off rock’s
inner ear that’s heard epochs
in sound wave striating a sheer
face —
Cliff snot, brittle
crispness that stays, stays somehow
cloud-coloured, orangish, starved
green: Dickensian waif-cousin to
moss, to plush bedding. Oh, granite trying
to be snow, you sleepless, sleep-
proof, trod on and sniffed
at reverie —
Stretch.