De Finibus

Why do I think of quarries
when I think of you
Why of gravel pits
Abandoned, with
Holes of gray useless pebbles
Churning
In murky pools?
Why touch I jumbles of cold
hard things
Ground
By a blank north wind?

Why do these thoughts
Come from nowhere
And lead
To Nothing?

Nothing makes his own reply
I’ll take the stones
And hurl them
Deep deep
down
Within

Till all sink from sight
And I am

Cold and hard and blank
As you.

_________________________
by Catrin Lewis, April 1985; all rights reserved