On cold worn pavement my
clumsy foot stumbles on
a crack, whose line and spintering path
You stretched out with careful thumb and forefinger
from end to end, whose jagged rambles are the
slashes of Your furious joyful pen.
You have named each pebble packed like
closely knitted stitches into the sunbaked slab;
You know from which ancient mountain it was
hewn, and in which field, fertile or
fallow, it will rest as dust.