Throwing Stones Into Still Water

You do not know before it happens
When the day will grow so silent
You can hear the slow creak of expansion
As your pores stretch and beads of sweat
Swell through to gleam upon your skin.

You walk alone on a green hillside,
A slow stretch of ankle tendons
Measuring the angle of slope. The sky
Above you is as blue as the vein
In your neck at dead of winter.

Below you a pond is a mirror
Set in the low marshlands before
The sea. Everything is reflected there.
Even the flat stone you will throw high
Enough to cut the devil’s throat.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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