What We Breathe
The craggy face of the granite, is wet with the rock's tears. Our lives are all being pulled down. The green grass is now in our bellies. Some tan-brown leaves, delicate, round hang disconnected from a small tree. The road goes only where it goes. It plunges, unknowing, reckless, into fog, enfolding and weighing us down. One cannot bear the pressure against breath, the granite pressing into the chest. But we bear it, and we breathe. We breath granite.