i have placed into this bowl a stone--
a surface of lead and butter, grainy like glass.
upon it i can crawl
to feel the crevices and density
of the lifeless beginning of life.
i search for the flaps and zippers
to open and unfold and uncoil this tiny stone.
by now my knuckles and cheeks are scraped
from the jagged vibrations of my stone
and i am drenched with the sludge of first life.

i think it is raining today
inside the curls of my stone,
and the burning of the sunrise,
of the core,
seeps and yellows my fingers
like pollen from the flowers in may.