The stone of his life weighs on him.
My life’s work My life’s work he whispers
holding the stone, his hands open.
It lies on us. House-stone, stone
of his past, his years are the one stone
soothed to his shape our lives lie under.
There are other stones: his wife and her two stone breasts,
his money, his speechless look through the window,
his children, carrying their own lives.
His ambition is the great stone he carries.
We polish the stone, it is our lives are worn.
We polish the stone, his house rears in the suburbs.
We polish the stone, he dreams and fears loneliness.
We polish the stone, he grows famous.
His is the stone on us when we are still.
His is the stone announcing itself when we move.
Our lives tremble, we cry the stone the stone.