the archeological dynastic

there is a place that we go

deep down, where the bones are stones

and the gongs from death knell songs

herald our descent below.

 

unforgiven is the earth,

the silt harbor where we berth

where glades of grass line the hems

of dry oxbow lanes and sullen glens.

 

there is a depth that is not known

where limbs and legs are overgrown

by roots and lies that have not gone

down dark steppes alone.

 

even after silence piles

over mounds of dirt and stones defiled

there is no greater loss or somber line

than the space that lies between vim and vine.