For years they have lain quietly. But this
is in their nature. Always they are sleeping.
Most stones are: abed, unseen, close-keeping,
silent. From the heart of the abyss
no pulses race—though hiss of steam is hiss
of percolating dream, the ever-seeping
salt-stream deeply underneath our creeping
scalp of fear that something is amiss
if once—just once—we sense at far remove
great grindings of clenched teeth that send our hair
electric-tingling upright. Off our chair
we fall, or down our stair. What ringing groove
of change is this? The giants sleep down there!
They do! But even in our sleep we move.
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Poems by Mark Rich have appeared in Fantasy & Science Fiction, Poem, and The Lyric, among other publications. An antique dealer, and the author of books on science fiction history and toys, he lives in the Coulee region of western Wisconsin. | |