Sick shovels chip away the mantle
and arrange archaic debris of
predecessors heavy on the shoulders
of family already creaking and clinging
sticky with their own tears and no one else's.
I know that sound they make like
church bells or sharp jabs all familiar to
those who have dug desperately
for relics or relief from dusty ache of fading
I've been the archeologist
He was too, he framed old bones
again in red dirt that touched the warm oily sun
now long covered and made rotted molten
to think of resting voice or heavy steps there
now foreign sediment a young terrible fossil
There have been some who try to reach the core
and some who are lowered in.