There’s the one rock type that I remember,

sedimentary,

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

new stratum.