Truth, may be cobbled:
first having been strong
as static clings
like poppy pollen in
the school yard, for-
getting what is known
of threat
in oleander chewed of
my family’s garden,
not knowing this
poisoned flavor - I
gather a pocket of stones
too smooth and flat
like the world has been
and wandering, find still water
chewing on each before tossing
having crumbled sand in the mouth
same I was too long held
in another’s
their singing so hot: I like glass
transparently, still not quite
traceable in bright light
the truth held firmly
too round to skim the water
or stack one on top the other
but gathered like a cairn
where the river turns.
skipping stones 