of my own making: uncarved,
my flesh cold to the touch
and unbetraying. No life remains,

no moss or insects make
their home in the stony depths. I yearn—

to be warmed sand on a hidden shore, or
a polished rock beautified by the tossing waves, or any iteration of my existence
which takes strength from struggle.

Instead, I calcify.
Alabaster.

(The Sculptor
defaces the block
and David emerges…)

Respite comes, as it always does,
in the form of a touch. When the sun
touches the gentle curve of the shore-line,

the stars breathe relief
into the boundless cosmos – still there, still resting in the pockmarked sky.

Greenery yellows. Tides sigh.
Stone bleaches and crumbles.