Ballast Stone

The rain is so redundant-
Especially in June when
The trees are green already
And I’ve spoken now the
Words that saturate me.
Dispensed in a single breath
They tether to no one.
Yet some little couplets,
Too harshly ripe for the mouth
To mime, are left to harden
In an honest man’s heart.
Oh, what does one make
Of a many Ballast Stone?
Will they keep me all the truer,
Or sink me ever-slowly?