After Besel van der Kolk

The rock drags itself — no, it is tugged, by 
the wind and the softening winter pond, 
a bowl depressing like a suncup, wound 
wider than it is deep. Sailing 
stones, the rocks that chart brushstrokes in sand,

are designed to leave their mark: veins in deserts 
won't be wiped clean by the joy of any 
far-off splashing. There's no threat here, no slosh 
or stupor. It’s dry. Stick a fist in the 

earth and find dust on your palms. The past you 
can’t remember is the future you 
can't imagine: 
filth and crisis. Beg it 

away. Thin floating ice panels break up 
on sunny days. Then the stones catapult — 

slowly—up to five meters per minute, 
they plod on. Sometimes the paths in the sand 

slog, non-linear like ribbons of salt-
water on a flushed face, like healing or 

forgetting. Tell the rock to stop. (It won’t).