The exquisite pain, the intricacies, the complications and complexities of love and sex
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.