A Stone by Michael Bazzett

A Stone

wrote a book of poems,

seventy-odd pages
and each one empty.
It was called happy to wait,

and its cover was a turtle shell
scoured by weasels,
left abandoned on the beach.

Its sun-bleached husk
was blank as air.
It took years to read,

mostly because the smell
of sunlight and dust
that rose from its pages

was so distracting,
the way it conjured
mountains out of nothing,

the way it made us
drop what we were doing,
stare out the window

and forget who we were —