Between opening and closing
your lips—stones
as gathered from the plain
as commanded by the angel
as found in the river, smooth
as ancient warning, carved
as black lava hardens
as in the mausoleum
as a hexagonal crypt, floretum
as you, transformed, circle
as an arc forms in the sky
as the stand bows its head
as the snow falls and time unwinds
one more hour one more day.
— Allison Contey