If these poets say it’s so, it’s so
that rocks breathe warm suspirations
at close of day and cool breezes
off the water search for lovers,
even though we know it isn’t so,
that it’s themselves that sigh
in the name of stones, and we,
whose bones cannot forget
the long bleak winter when wind
and rock could not forgive
each other and spouses killing spouses
in unheated houses filled
the weeklies, also know how heat
lingers in stark rocks gone blue,
but being brutes who say “get drunk”
for “having drinks” wonder
why these poets so smarted up
in soft, loose summer clothes
don’t just say so?

William Hathaway lives in Surry.