by Richard FoersterBut for the thirteen letters of his name and the chiseled dates that a hyphen spans— as if it were the only vital bridge between two chartless lands: those vast oblivions of before he was and after— I might mistake this granite for something winter heaved carelessly into the thawed New England light, a stepping- stone in mud season, yet one a farmer would nevertheless take a shovel to, as would I were it not so precisely set flush with the green earth and I could undo the mason's marks.
