I would hug bones, small fossils, to my chest as if they, like an errant breeze, contained lost gods.
So many silent, semi-potent ghosts melted away like salted ice on the long road past my door.
In keeping their sands and secrets, the feast of their tombs, I search frantically beneath palms, and dates, and acacias for the last morsels of antiquity.
An anchor, perhaps, to the vainglorious fictions written by bloodied generals and sunken eyed conquerors. The chain rope of skepticism pulling me deep into and old- old river.
Sand rises; silt and watery dust, filled to the brim with old oil drums and drangon bones, becomes the last venue in which I find the pitiful and incomprehesible demoralization of my alcoholic fever dream