Nearing The Largest Stone On Earth

I can almost see the pieces of white hair
at the dented ears, the eerie lips, the eyebrows
growing mushrooms. It faces the ocean, a pensive
dominator. You cannot see his mansion, which he left
when the mother died, turned the bathtub into a tomb,
the halls unsightly with their unctuous water, rooms
turned into beaches and clams sat in their chairs,
wormy retired folk toasting with steins of blood.
Our histories are skulls full of creamed corn, antique
plates with anguished faces; The sky has a silver head,
rising and curtseying to its master, the ground,
as wars are spread out across the earth like fire ants.
The trees begin to back away.
Napoleon leers in its shadow, The Tollund Man
has finally removed his noose but keeps his leather hat,
groves of pitcher plants close and open like eyeless
monks.
And with returning we slow our return.
Walking is common among the garden;
you were sixty feet tall at its base, and the view was
exquisite.