the quarries are closed. we sneak out a piece
of granite, hoping to remake ourselves, but we
only have enough to make half a head. out of one
side of our mouth we say we wish we had never
been born. venus de milo at least used to have arms.
we were never able to procure enough to make
suitable memories let alone appendages. we make
you out of sandstone so you would wear quickly
and evidence of our handiwork would not be found.
the wind is a curse and a blessing. effacement
never happens just the way we want it to.
we find that you can’t breathe life into a piece
of marble no matter how veined it is. someone
begins to throw rocks at us and we are grateful.