HiRezCanDo

No blood. The place is marked by a perfection of stones, a little pile, all smooth as cartilage, round as a socket, bleached like his last minute. —— He measures the lay of the water, the leaf-spread of the palms, the palm-spread of his hand, his hand holding a circled shale splinter, kept from a delta down-road. He measures—                          and with measure, cadence, and period, rhymes the rock in a roll off his flesh. It is the waterborne prayer of the tiny temples of his five fingertips.        The sliver skims above shallow-water skates and rays; its comet tail of bent-bright skylight ripples and spooks w