New poem from an unpublished fragment, written sometime in 2011.

Unbroken flesh
becomes stone
if left under pressure
for long enough. Then,
often, breakage:

stone once shattered
enters dust.
Fragmented, it
reshapes itself.

Merely cracked,
it stays that way for
an eon until more stone 
fills gaps. 

Unsure of my specifics
as matrix around me
opens and I step out.
Never been here before.

Legs feel odd, what I see
is odd, what I smell
is odd  — or it’s not odd at all and
I am sensing oddly. Stone

is all I can smell no matter
flower or meal or neck
before me.

Is this forever? In panic, see 
that erosion may be 
a lone hope for salvation:

lie down in a stream
or under a waterfall
or grind along a riverbed
with other stones.

Either that or
get comfortable
being this hard
for a long time
yet to come.

Sit for a bit with it
in rain or sun or snow.
Try to decide. Try to 

not fret, try to not choose
(once again)
what’s most obviously
wrong, not to choose what’s
wrong, try to choose
what’s not wrong, try
to feel something
right enough
long enough
to choose it.