You will not blame the stones,

or look to yourself

beyond the stones, and say

you did not long for them

before your face

had turned to stone.

In front of you

and behind you, in the darkness

that moves with day, you almost

will have breathed. And your eyes,

as though your life were nothing more

than a bitter pilgrimage

to this country of want, will open

on the walls

that shut you in your voice,

your other voice, leading you

to the distances of love,

where you lie, closer

to the second

and brighter terror

of living in your death, and speaking

the stone

you will become.