When limestone faces
wear rivers of cracks,
weathered grimaces
and frozen grins
create only questions,
awaken memories
of a parent,
perhaps, whose
series of strokes
left lips uncertain:
the legacy, a hieroglyphic
glance, shards
of shattered Rosetta stone,
the chance for communion
with the one who is gone,
gone. Just a bed,
a shroud of sand piling
upon a craggy face,
a sheet of wind sliding
over the body like a lover,
silent yet ready
with the riddle,
the one it will carve
in stone.
This poem appears in House of Mirrors and in Where There Was No Pattern
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