There is no Shadow

In ruins, Some affection surfaced
in me (as late June's sun rose)
for monsoon-crimsoned stones.
Lacking any sense or basis
(typical of mine), I sat and chose
until one rested, palmed, alone.

Sitting, cross-legged, pale-pink
beetle ambling indifferently by
the brick-pile, my selected one atop
its path-mark pyramid (Ring
of stone-wrought lukewarm fire,
failure of an insect tourist trap).

With trembling fingers, I slowly
Halved the highest rock, and smeared.
Polished each with traveled beetle-road,
and left its residue to follow.
Cut, it wept its own tears.
and gently shed my blood.