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PNR 277
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This poem is taken from PN Review 137, Volume 27 Number 3, January - February 2001.

Nine Poems Brian Jones


Stones

After three days
I am familiar with stones
how they talk: chirp, clink,
clatter, grumble,
and how they accede,
gripping like molar roots
or giving themselves up
to the rake's sensual tickle,
but most of all
how they endlessly
emerge: a place
seems pure tilth,
fine-grained as coffee,
when slowly,
like a drowned rising,
a pale stone-face
...


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