The Stranger
I knew I could enjoy the stones forever,
the ocean whispering on my left, and green wet lamp-fruits
of seaweed—disembodied organs, hollow and split—
and white wood bone-forms all around.
Proud in their varied ovoids, the stones were dark
and soft, of a frigid warmth, heaped and distinct,
some crossed by lines of chalk and rose
or caravans of stipples,
and any one I touched and turned…how, pointing
and licking, touching, the light,
like a faithful guide and tactful lover,
compelled me to praise, moved and taught me wonder
across its skin, traveling the tranquil scars, the dimples
and spaces between features. One stone I remember
all black but for a burning, silver-dun
sprinkle of old stars, and a subtle ring-shaped ridge:
along this rim the noon’s light shone redoubled,
like the sun condensed into the fiery
eyelash of eclipse light. Large and small,
magnificent and dull, the stones lay tumbled
on and under one another, and I trudged,
head turning here and there, hands lifting,
stroking, and dropping bodies, my eyes
looking back drunk on volumes and colors,
in a fallen city where no one halted me.
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A.F. Moritz‘s most recent book of poems is The Sentinel (House of Anansi Press, 200)
