1.

I leave
to another there
and here.

Is it Prague,
stilted grim faces bleeding with history;
or Assos,
sunning by the Aegean,
saffron and paprika colorings
that I am acquainted with stones?

Or is it in my bedroom,
where an egg-shaped
likeness of a Buddha happens in my palm?

The other day
the white stone on railing
rests a butterfly.

All these,
I heed.

The unspeaking pieces
gather me.