Living Stones

Where is the ruby of unhappiness?
Withered stems crumble into the dirt;
grey hair streams from a dead baby’s scalp.

Undecorated, wordless seasons
keep coming dumbly, warmly or coldly;
we look in the sky and never see angels.

I tell you about my pain in dreams,
rose-cut diamonds lodged in the heart;
we tear each other up like opening presents.

Our millipede-legged fate scuttles through the clouds.
Rain falls on cities and their monuments,
columns and statues dim in the fog.