The Geometry of Size One

A Poem by Anon ymous

What loves the stones.
For they seem to exist.

She can’t put a name on silence.

Figures it must be God.
He knows the nouns and verbs that spell despair.

She asks,
for no one:

What loves the sky.
What loves the hawk circling the field.
What loves the field the hawk circles.

What loves a well wrought story.

There is nothing left but completeness,
the quiet balance of morning.

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