Grail
A soup of earth, gloating thick against a sprint,
slues the archaeologist, and ranks a shadowy elbow
above head and heart,
trilling, thrilling, distilling vocalyptic egos
traipsing on severed toes beguiling
a patterned plateau to follow.
Some calluses can be Creationists; strapping laughter
on a cello, a handsome young devil in the shroud of armadillo
or the sting of argument
spacing
a spectacle for a Spartacus, pumping the voice for fists,
adhesive for a chest
fat for winter
and wrapping up gifts; grinning spades that furrow
marionette hairs
wafting up from the ground,
decking tomorrow with laurels
of ever distant liquor.
Ann Foxglove
Mon 1st Mar 2010 09:55
I am intrigued by this. The middle got me a bit lost, but I enjoyed reading it again. Are you or have you ever been an archaeologist I wonder. You sound like a poetic archaeologist!