He looked David over and saw that he was little more than a boy, glowing with health and handsome, and he despised him. 1 Samuel 17:42
—This stone. I cut it, rub, roll it and still, it will not star. Stone slinging my wrist, stand up. Given a bath, given a wrathful interpretation of a heart, closeted, frustrated, eating a wrist, it will not star. I stare, it does not blush. Its own, knows where we sleep and bides time. As the war drones bound, as soldiers roast meat, touch in recesses of fire, as thrashing alpaca. It trains its throne, given a ride in my peephole, I cannot see, peers from no place that will help me. I grow with my heart’s hot moaning, David, David, David, David.
