I who am telling
hand against earth
knuckle to rock
pebbles, abrasions
on the surface of skin
dust and grit
caked
behind ear
under finger nails
teeth hiding beneath
lips
thinned and cracked
by time by
wind
the things we mean to
say
like so many bones
stripped and skinned
of flesh
buried, vertical
through a thousand
different years
strata
vertebrae jut and
twist
press through
and against
sand through limestone
run our sun burnt
fingers
along notched ribs
we brush away more earth
expose the clear
polished line
of a femur
shining white, glazed
in the sun
read each
face
like braille
jaws
gaped and open
edged by screams of
horror
brushing away
debris, collected fragments
one quarter inch
at a time
elbows, knees
pressed into the tel
of the world
© 2010 andrew kooman
