I sat in the library until closing time,
Penning the sharp-edged rime
Of pretty, little stones that shone,
Pretty, little stones dull as bone,
Igneous stones so light they float,
Little clouds caught in a mote,
I remember collecting the chips,
Pressing their lines to my lips,
Their names were all it took to seize
the mineral design with solid ease,
I always wrote things I couldn't hold
Promises that keep growing cold.
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