One thousand years ago he saw the whispers in his ear One hundred years later, at
moments, whether he heard the words, he now saw himself take notice and then the
episode began again His hands shrink the stone into a batholith, creating a bottomless
caldera that reflects a tide of phosphorescence in his eyes He maps the stone with the
quill of a quetzal: 39.705°-105.08° this directs others to him His deep etches mark
the stone’s location in a palace made of pyrite he once lost He places the stone within
a travertine box, refracting memories traveling within water particles that evaporate on
his skin Today, at moments, whether he heard the words, this is not a stone he will
continue to collect it
