(Turkish coast, January 2016)

Not stone, among stones,
a beach of clunkers sea-smoothed, kidney-
sized, head-sized, chest-sized, and some

small enough to fit in the palm
of the hand. Sea water wrinkles
the lapsing edge. Each stone

clasps a shadow twin. Waves
gentle now, lick stone. Spittle
glare. The ancient, piratical

sea. Not stone, the stiff
curled fingers, creased jacket, small
bare foot, the striped knitted

hat covering the face we
cannot, do not
want to see.



Rosanna Warren, the author of four collections of poetry, has received awards from the Academy of Arts and Letters and has won the Lamont Poetry Prize. She teaches at the University of Chicago and lives in New York City.

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