If feelings
were stones
littering huge
ancient cliffs—and
words were
the cumbersome antlers
of ferocious
dead animals—then
the first poem
on earth
was a hatchet,
chipped and chiseled
from rough
chalky flint—
and this
more recent example
is the polished
obsidian tip
of an arrow,
aimed straight
at some modern heart—which is,
basically,
a sack
full of stones.
