came upon this

the following, by Joan Naviyuk Kane



In a House Apart




You hurt me, then,
Burnt a bird’s white plumage—
Claim that we are the better for it,
That we will heal in time.

Strident and inaccurate
Despite all proximity,
The mountains no longer
Made me feel better.

The year in its wheel of winter
And its small cylinder of light
In excess. Far pillars could
Resemble human figures

Though only rock rises
From some progression
Of dust, demand, and rotten
Wood. I place my hand on stone
And become stone myself.