mountain stones

these blue mountain stones
have borne the polish
of madagascar puddles
once before
and ancient rome's rains
cold in may
cutting slow
sinuous curves
on their way to the
sea

passing hands of
shepherd girls
and pits of fire
blackened and cracked in
the cauldron
hiss

i wish that you
would wear me such
and
cut me
smooth
with
your sweeps
of
icy
bliss