The
seed planted in you must have been caught
from
its infancy between wedge-leaf stone.
How
many times thwarted finger roots bought
water
from the rock? Licked sacrificial bones?
Shackled,
restless, pushing, it rose atom by atom,
quiet
through empires’ ages. Soft roots
locked
in frozen battle with pagan
mineral.
And now no priest to pull the shoots.
Trunks
widen: see how they crouch like old warriors
on
your carcass! Fallen, fallen—arches,
ceilings,
secret rooms. Fear, Vishnu! The
full
grown fig with sickle-time will slice your stone.