when you go walking with me I hear stones

that gnash and grinding

roughly underfoot,

like walking on a gravel driveway

down the paths of graveyards.

 

Great chunks have rubbed each other into grit.

Some slivers, too, shaved thin enough

the marble has rolled up

into itself,

shatter when stepped on.

 

Blood from a stone, how smooth will smooth enough?

What does your chisel know? 

Skin, skin, the skin, your skin — where is it now? 

And what made you think you

can soften marble?