Pinning Eyes On a Skeleton

We seek to entertain ourselves Going to the heart of places In order to feel the pulse, Affirm the identity of living. We come here to know What and who we are By looking down the deep Shaft of time through Which each pebble of being falls. It is Sunday. It is the focal Point anodyne, ordinary. The laugh of the children, The bounce of their bodies, Has all been expected and known. The lanes through which history Has passed are clearly marked And labeled. Each animal, each skull, Possesses a badge of paragraph From which I read to anxious ears. “Passenger Pigeon: Ectopistes Migratorious” Pinned the eyes and noses to glass In gazing. The epitaph of a species, Its lone reward. I sneeze, the button- Eyes do not flinch. “Why aren’t there Any more?” This, the last one, Eyes sewn; I laugh myself to stitches. It is Sunday. We migrate toward The vending area.