Sniffing its footprints, this pebble

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Sniffing its footprints, this pebble
wants to start over—you lift it
and the sky too grows larger
heavier—you're in the way.

It's tearing apart some vague scent
all stone once had—you can make out
its tears, its warm pulse
its tongue stirs, reaching for words

for its throat and your blood
lines up closest to the surface
—all those years, this little stone
must think there's still time

that your bones too will learn to stare
to heal, sledged from their mountainside
scattered and streams closer and closer
taking so long to empty.