My hollows brought me here, being as they were
on the outside. Pushed through
gooseflesh
by a mudslide of millstones
It wasn't only the then-burning skin
or the cooling rock as it set between ribs.
It wasn't only the failing words as you
glass-eye stared.
I had salted away shale, my collarbone
grew heavy; tried to topple me
in my throat
the cobblestone crowned.
A cumber of rocks that I knew
to acknowledge,
then sand in my lungs, and the ache
as the sinker plumbed mud.