(For Ross)
Stones at my feet
by Bill West
I tugged hope tight about me and went
through streets marbled by
moon stepped between puddles of
memory searched for the lost and
misplaced cast out into abandoned gloom.
I found a dead cat, a matchbox, a letter
the annotated works of women, written on tombs
a comb, my uncle's sideboard and his wig
rakish atop a spittoon.
How I ached for all I had forgotten
a kiss a touch a blow
and how I grieved for lost hours
lost moments
tomorrows never known
A wind drove me out from the city
into gentle hills and fields
to a wood where a stream lapped lightly
and the stones at my feet
and the stones at my feet
were smooth.