I’m somewhat unconvinced by the monumentality of it all—
the parable of horn and cornerstone—when what was meant was merely rock—
stones and rock-piled troughs—blasted by the lime of the wind.
Slabs like a granite sponge of sea-earth, like a heaped shaping of whatever is
that cannot move. And from the vantage of these mounds of sky and isles of bright
Aruban blue: there are recondite, undisturbed, hard, material sediments.
Tough black rock. Uplifted hill of all these pebbled crags and chasms, decibels
of what really? Beautiful shorewaste. Barren-coasted balm. Beside
the beach are the ruins of something. Light assays. Grass is absent. Weed
which would have to cut stone is not here. Not in this pose and position of
sun—balking air—other leagues of monotone. And on the bushless, leave-
less rock, atop igneous agglomerations, sturdy and unsturdy stone—is
you. Young still. The sun tags your yellow shirt in the white blue.
So you stand, as you stood.
You do not move.
NOVEMBER 2008