Stones at my Feet by Bill West

Epigraph
(For Ross)

I tugged hope tight about me and went
through streets marbled by moon,
stepped between puddles of memory,
searched for the lost and misplaced,
cast out into abandoned gloom.

I found a dead cat, a matchbox, a letter
the annotated works of women,
written on tombs, a comb,
my uncle's sideboard and his wig
rakish atop a spittoon.

How I ached for all I had forgotten:
a kiss, a touch, a blow,
and how I grieved for lost hours
lost moments
tomorrows never known.

A wind drove me out from the city
into gentle hills and fields
to a wood where a stream lapped lightly,
and the stones at my feet
and the stones at my feet were smooth.