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By Karl Zuehlke

A word rests on my tongue like a stone.
I open my mouth and it is still a stone.


I can write it out for you in cursive.

The way a ghost inhabits an outcrop of stone.


In a fever dream as a child I reached

toward a shut door and my arm was stone.


A field scatters into a flock of starlings—

pewter wings, inset bands of iridescent stone.


I was still until I knew I was

all that was still. I heard extruding stone.


If you lose your hand, make dice

from your knuckles and bet with stone.


When the sky zeros in on me

I rub my eyes now that they aren’t stone.


Clear insects and clear lives drink darkness

dripping from dark ceiling stones.


You don’t know my name. You don’t know

what I sweep across whetstone.