At rest on the desk
His hands are quarried granite,
Twin heaps of sprawled stone,
Scarred and veined,
Unmoving on the smooth blond wood.

The teacher’s hands are small white birds.
“Christopher?” she coos,
“Would you like to write something for me?”

He does not pick up the pencil.
She will learn that the stories of stone
Are not to be bartered for birdsong.