Speak plain. Speak true.
Pulling into rockyard to
pickup two cubic yards of
decomposed granite, DG.
Unease onto this subtle path
of earthmovers, oracles, and scales
-- a stone culture that confounds.
My request should be clear
of the woman at the window,
My words concrete:
Portland cement, limestone, half ton
aggregate, sixty pound paper sacks,
finger ripped and seeping.
(salt water is its ancient cure,
a riddle carved within
manstone that endures)
And I, at a loss, drive blind,
wrong way headlong into
a fearsome masticator
Please. I need to lay a path.
There cannot be enough lye
to cover all these bodies.
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