Sometimes he believes collecting stones, placing them
in a small bag, is enough.

But other days it’s not, and he writes stories of
faceless characters, tries to place bags of small
stones in their hands, but they don’t want them.

Why, he asks, with your faceless faces, would you
not want stones, a bag to carry?

They don’t answer, only stare in a faceless way.

So he writes a story of a face so fleshy and real,
gives it blue eyes and rosy cheeks, a mouth wet and
open, and then carefully places one smooth stone on
its tongue.

The face spits it out and says, I don’t need your
stones, I have my own, look at my teeth, how hard and
gray you’ve made them.

Now his small collection seems sinister—too many
stone faces in one body bag, too many mouths that
can’t open.