Random Acts of Poetry

Stone

I may have been this pebble
long before the earth
tore the moon from its heart,
or the blue boulders clashed
and tumbled off their edges.

Later, a Paleozoic moment
in a flooded cave:
I held a latent universe
rolled like a scroll
in trilobite synapses.

I knew nothing
but a salt solution then,
and crinkled sand,
and waves heaving epochs
against a vanished shore.

In me I keep the stone I was,
the lizard I became.
He is not dead, only sleeping
on some sun-warmed table rock,
digesting the dream of time.