Stones by Andrew Nance

I was then ready to count stones.
Bricks inlaid in walls, a fireplace, some 
odd-blocks where either new black-top 
layers failed or there was an effort to 

preserve. Others were between teeth, under
arms, on the radio. Chatty-details each
day like boats docking, waves cracked 
open, exposing silt. Smooth blocks beneath 

the song of water. There was a chain
holding them together at each joint: 
fatty-pastes, rain-clogs. I kept count of 
successions from sea to sky to the sun 

boiling them red. The stones then
turned in my pockets, rotating into 
my mouth. New methods grew from dusk.
I derived by dividing: wall by ash.