I dreamed about the stones
and then I found them
somewhere in my pocket.
Clouds swept by
and cars swept by.
The subway and the carriage,
glass and gold,
went humming through the tube,
the pairs of horses with their heads held high
and Westward Ho!
It was snowing heavily
throughout the day
in Puerto Rico.
It was hot on top
of Everest and every single Alp.
On a stormy afternoon in some dark gulch
the weathermen went home.
O sages, where’s the weight of wisdom?
I have walked behind the holy men
and holy women in my whitest gown.
The stones rang elsewhere
and outside the great procession.
In the water once in that green summer
of my skinny knees,
I swam the River Susquehanna
and the stones were everywhere
and smooth and white
along the banks.
I lay and slobbered oAnd afterward
I lay and slobbered on the suede of moss
and must have swallowed
half a dozen stones
like luscious oysters, raw and wet.