As a kid, I heard and said,
“Take it for granite,” as in
something safe to stand on in
any weather, as in
something that could hold
a phrase forever.
White stone at the quarry turns
the quarry water green
like it’s a deep dish of uncle Franz’s
“champagne deathray” (fizzy
water, chartreuse, and grain).
So much Franz
claims not to remember
but the recipe holds
like chains of nucleatides
or one bone in a tail
hiding beneath the smooth skin
of everyone in the family.