Something Like Prehistoric Stonework by William Doreski

As I lie in bed the wind warps
a hole through me large enough
to admit a scorch of moonlight.
You’re so restless you roll over
and over, flattening landscapes
already discolored by memory.
Pumps rasp in the basement where
ground water plots to reclaim us.
The year is ending as usual.
The dark becomes too personal,
the severance of self from other
becomes contractual, and days
before a clutter of birthdays—
Richard Nixon, Joan Baez, myself—
the year folds its campsite and sighs.
 After a slow week of thaw the snow
has scheduled itself to return
and smooth away the rough spots.
Although it can’t enter the house,
the wind has its way with me.
Late yesterday afternoon
you insisted that I sample
expensive bourbon someone
evil gave a friend who drinks
with undergraduate fervor
inappropriate in middle age.
Now I can’t sleep, the moon
sinister but meaningless,
its stony façade masking
an historic lack of intention.
The hole the wind has worked in me
doesn’t hurt, but the moonlight
reveals an unfamiliar texture—         
something like prehistoric stonework
evolution forgot it commissioned,
buried in ordinary rubble.
Photo by Valdemar Traça on

About the Poet:

William Doreski‘s work has appeared in various e and print journals and in several collections, most recently Train to Providence, a collaboration with photographer Rodger Kingston.

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