By Fritz Eifrig

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if there were ears
to hear
there is no sign,
only ebbing ripples show
where I threw that stone.
no sounds
no flecks of color
no cheerful splashes
mark the site.
that missile
plucked carefully
from fertile dirt,
and true within my hand.
lofted with a shout
then turning,
briefly in the air.
now sunken, dark
and out of sight.
silt and old decay
orbit its disturbance,
a minuet below the surface,
while through the murk
vibrations shiver
like searching kisses
trailing blind desire.
it landed there among
the reeds–
I saw it drop,
a story told complete.
but silence
speaks its own judgment:
an uninvited interruption,
missing the mark,
now bedrock for a cairn
of comrades flung
in futile hope.

Fritz Eifrig