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