My rock is a clock-
work, lots of little pieces,
tripping home from school.

I threw a rock through a window,
laughing as fireworks
exploded under a wheelchair.

I dialed the phone,
frightening the old
with cruel words.

My clockwork was built
by some Turks, Austrians,
and Serbs -- beating
a child with a shoe, slapping
a joking mouth in church.

While the fields flow in grass,
my rock is encircled in grass.

The clockwork rocks on,
but the grass is the story
unending.

Just a long exhalation
of sunrise and sunset:
the green thrumming world.

“The rock! the rock!,” I cry.
But the grass is true memory,
the good in God.

The cars at the railroad
crossing, clanging bells,
pulsing red lights--
the cars wait.

The wind blows over the fields.