The Rarities

Filigrees of myth upon the pebbles in his hands,

turns them over upon themselves, as though

rolling a cigarette. That shed, back of the house, filled

with hay & strewn with implements; pulling firewood

from the bin, from the slatted shelf he hands me

his rarity, a hollow rock, filled

with crystals. We’d come across such things,

turned up from the field perhaps by a plow, a mallet-

tap once or twice and — there, it’s opened, revealing

the salty white insides. Sometimes,

we’d leave them whole, not broken, but hard

& perfect although not smooth, but perfect

even so; round, like an egg is more

perfectly round; unbroken; knowing just

what was inside, was enough. In my room

as a boy, you’d find such stones

scattered about; I don’t know where

they’ve gotten to now & haven’t heard

of such being recently found; hollow,

like the Earth, birthing

stones against the Blade.