A poet asked, what      did light say 
about a stone?        
That       one 
afternoon   in July, the earth    heaved 
and all the stones holding      our city 
together   came        loose like bones 
dropped         from their skeletons. 
Or think   of that day       when soft 
bodies of caterpillars fell  from trees
onto heated     pavement slabs    and writhed   
until they were stretched out    and still. 
I stole my own torch and ran    as far away 
as I could to make fire,    having learned you 
can't bore a hole into    something that believes
it is unbreakable.    Instead, water will  furl 
around it.   Gazing into the shallows    is one 
way to bear          looking at the light.       

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