W. H. Petty
Stones
He left
the greyhound hills
and the black stones
of the valley.
He came
to the city,
city winking
through its red night.
City,
he grasped you hard,
tried to squeeze you
to a vapour.
But then
the city reared,
hammed down its fist,
its roaring fist.
It grabbed
him with a grin
and tossed him, sick,
to greyhound hills.
The hills
licked his lost hands,
and the black stones
tendered him home,
those warm black stones.
Page(s) 21
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