Hühnergötter / Adderstones

Wounded the stone fills the crease of my hand
between life and heart and other things to come
its weight tells the hand not to forget
dead birds, broken vases, mistakes

Wounds become eyes
and as they grow, big and round
their seeming innocence engulfs, salty, sweet
thrown up into the air, one two / higher / three
lost then when it mingles again with its kind

On my way back home
I cannot shake the feeling
that thousands of eyes follow my every step, judging.