The man who balanced stones
took them home to bed with him, you know.
He rolled them under the covers
and ran the soles of his feet,
callous by callous,
over the fissures and dimples.
He knew the landscape of limestone and slate,
the terrain of every one of those globes of granite,
each freckle and glint of mica,
his namesake; and god knows the hands,
the great gulfed hands of a wall builder.
By day he pawed those bed stones of fieldstone
eyes closed to a flicker of emotion
and a slow sweet smile as
he found each one’s sweet spot—
the point at which it rested in perfect balance.