poetry and poets

Saturday, February 12, 2005

sixteen stones

sixteen stones
tony gallucci

Sixteen large, round stones
some would call them boulders
make a bridge across this creek
where it slides over moss and reed
quickening to white fowm, rolling
splashing riverward, running for sea

Rage rainstorms counterclockwise
in lives that cannot simply rise
to gentle breeze, but boil or freeze
on thin lips stained by dope and thin lies
quickening over roiling surf on a flatboard
rolling beachward, running from cities
and what city denies

History will have only the sun to blame
for all this, this passion for water
what draws us here, drowns us there
pale youth in need of ancient ways
the bronzed skin of the elders, their days
and the thrill of speed

It draws the creek, captive of gravity
and the bond of molecules, in need of itself
and sea level, and a chance to be stolen away
in oaken bucket or brown jar, or ridden
by longboards, silver sleek-fish, dancing-eyes
quickening horizonward, running for sky
And I

drawn to walk those sixteen stones
some would call them boulders