The year I am off to the side of life
or against it
I am the stone if I am anything
another holds
and places on each day
In the ancient Roman diaries
the hand would be a divine emperor’s
Here it is
attached to trees
Oranges fall and there are stones in them
revealed by the slow
burning curtains of their rinds
Lemons fall and there are stones in them
not blessed and yes
cushioned in their flesh which glows or would
if a ray shined to it
My grandmother grew
orbed morgues like these
of summer colors like these
and with their bitterness too
Each fall she boxed them
soft tissue
protecting surface from surface
She keeps trying to warn me
Loneliness is a real wound
left by a false weapon