This stone on the desk is inaccessible
in its rare innards, though fist-shaped

and polished by years’ employment
in meditation, an idle hand grasping it

to rub and shine, as a mind
strokes History or notions of Being.

Its cool skin never returns the answer
to any question, not to the fingers

that try its bumps and hollows, and not
to the silence of the empty room,

where it squats toad-like while light
crosses the desk, slowly, from the window,

in the turning of the day. When no one knows,
the stone uncurls and loves the light.

Its silver tongue flicks precise, shivery
gleams from the air. It hums.