Standing on the porch and listening through the door
I hear the steady intonations of a voice I know so well
though the words themselves are lost in the paneled wood.
Only the sweet familiarity of the voice gets through
but its form is with me like the door’s becoming human
by dreaming both our faces as its transom window.
Every rock’s angry and resigned. My hands are pinched
and sliced, but my own angers stay sun-distant and sharp:
geometric truths instead of human ones. Mindless work
removes us from ourselves, or do we find ourselves?
This rock resembles me: it has a tucked-in chin.
Each rock has a face or two, angled and storied.
This one I threw at the shed and missed the other day.
We failed each other, the shed dodged, but I’ll try again –
this time to hit the deep ditch beyond the trees.
When you aim at the abyss, you rarely miss.
Robert Lunday is the author of Mad Flights (Ashland Poetry Press). He teaches for Houston Community College and lives on a small horse farm in central Texas.