I farm clear stones in shallow beds; my fields wear rime when the cold sets. I never bake though I own many cups, twist my spine and watch my harvests jump.

On paper we record history for keeps. On phone we ignore some ignorant tweets. As a noun I helped society remember its prime. As a verb I am often seen as a waste of time.

When I’m too hot I wear a jacket; when you’re too cold I warm your hands. I leave pale halos where I linger, then vanish at the rinse. They call me a face, though I am not one.

I spring from a box with a laugh or a crack, I lift up your car when the road fights back. I deal out the cards and I plug in the sound, Guess who I am, in all forms I’m found?

I’m a small jaw at rest on a desk, fed slender rations of silver. Press my back and I forge a bridge, two loose wanderers now bound together. Starve me, and I only bite the air.