Thursday, October 13, 2011

The Making of Fossils

For a thousand days or more I burned.
A small mound of ashes remains,
gray matter blowing in winds made 
of thoughts and words
(I like words, don't get me wrong)
gathering here and there
then elsewhere on my face,
salted dunes of sand, yet
somewhat sweet and bitter.
Wrinkles form where none have been before,
of familiar tracks and words smoothed over.
One day another wind will unearth a truth (if there was any)
then will shift a little east or west or north or south
and I will look upon the body of words at the bottom of this
and marvel.  (Is that all there was?)
Impregnated by distance, by time, it will grow
a sense of something calcified,
a skeleton of burnt bodies.
Under the shadow of giant insects in an ancient world
we are made as insignificant as we have ever been.

No comments:

Post a Comment