There’s the one rock type that I remember,
the one that’s stasis in drag —
evidence of where humans have jousted with time.
It’s petrified history that
tells of us, the restless,
and of us, the content.
Sometimes I can recognize sedimentary rock in the immaterial,
in the layered air
when we were doing crunches on the gym floor,
calcified in the hum of that Beirut song
a Pangea state of what’s-in-store urgency
tonight in a world full of thrills —
and I stood up, climbing atop the ledge
to crack a window
where would we be now if I’d taken your hand —
and drink in that