Brick of History

This brick—this one,

right to my right

on the terrace

of a Himalayan café—

this brick reads like braille

gets tickled by bougainvillea

and loves its neighbors.

This brick looks

like sand gone solid.

It is the face of time,

sun-chapped, ruddy

wearing the pocked

skin of its youth

forever on its aging face.

This brick smells of cellar—

secret-scented. It hints

of rooms beneath streets

where roots break through

what man has made.

This brick sounds

like the wind, like centuries

of flux from every place

earth’s been dug down into

to pull up clay

(shape, fire, stack)

to build back up.

This brick would taste

like history if I licked it—

savor of fog and wind

blurring all desires

through time.

This brick feels

like solid chalk

like it’s flexing its muscles

like it’s about to speak.

I wait.

The bouganvilla

shivers across it

saying shhhhhhh.

This brick blows a kiss

to its cousin in Kansas

then whispers—

Keep holding up
the crumbling world.