Rocks

                                       for John Densmore

The secret of poetry is to write
As if you are already dead
Which may be why a poet
Is naturally drawn to rocks

They are alive, of course
But at an infinitesimal rate
So that a single breath
Takes a year or more

In the same way a certain star
Sits in the heavens although
Science has determined
That was years ago

And what one is seeing
Has nothing to do with reality
But then so little does