Hard as ribs to the touch,
quartz veins curve
on its surface. Erosion
has settled shape that cannot
be split at a pulse.
The crush coheres,
hollows the flesh of my hand
where blood flow slows
to an ache. It fits my palm
as though it were born there,
skin-stretcher, smoothed by
the wash of a distant sea.
Sure in its heft, it endures
the evolution of fingers,
the continuation of bone.
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