Copihue Poetry

The stones have strewn themselves
across the plain. In the light each
could be a knot of nerves, a brain.

The big square ones breathe deep
enough to make us dig back down in,
collect ourselves as we were before

we littered up our lives, then
learned to run off ridges and cliffs.
If you fed in through their rock pores

to live a rock day, you’d dream
a cold old dream that goes long.
But instead you stay in your skin,

wear yourself away as stones do
while they spill, era by era from
every direction and fill the fields. If

we took a thousand years to work
through them like water, what would
we be by then: each of us only one

small drop dried against a continent
we can’t keep from crumbling.