The honey of peace in old poems.
– Robinson Jeffers (“To the Stone-Cutters”)
A man wants to stay out of the red
investing too much in the wrong things
that dull your senses, erode the granite’s edge
into homogeneous uniformity like gravel.
We wear down with the friction of time
and interest, but passion’s advantage
rests with satisfaction beyond currency
building a history one rock at a time.
I can’t shake loose my need for truth
these days, always
skeptical of the latest news
sandwiched between advertisements
hawking sex and drugs to humans—
I sip the scandalous like wine,
leave to light the barbecue,
and let my unfocused stare
inhale the browning hillside
leaking five-months’ rainfall
behind the house to stream
along the gravel driveway,
past the pickup parked
where a rock wren pair
rebuild their home of stones—
Tor House in a tailpipe—
I need to see the truth.