Graduating to Wet Stones

Patience (for Helen Mae) She's been silent since December. I worry about the granite sky, force words into empty spaces. I can't sit still as she does, her long naked fingers, cracked skin over sculpted bone stretch out to me. I try to remember the shape of her hands full flushed with crimson in mid-October. I beg her to confess but she will not tell her secret of patience: How silence is a dream, a disremembering of naked limbs and rough bones-- a quiet purchase of green.

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