blood from stones
My tired eyes are mesmerized
by green stones flecked with jasper,
memories of flea markets colliding
with dry river beds and shallow pools.
I could have found these rocks anywhere.
The apple-colored trinkets bleed
in my calloused hands, fingertips massaging
imagined fluid from ancient pebbles
that I might have thrown at school windows.
This older version of myself spends
countless moments contemplating
coins and toy cars and rocks, stupid things
that distract me from writing stupid poems
about how foolish I truly used to be.
But I have no use for wayward youth,
those little pissed off primal gods
who scampered about in sheets and laurels,
smashing mountains with hammers.
Now I waste my precious time
squeezing blood from stones.
Copyright © 2011 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved