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Poem

What was real and alive, is now real and a trace. 

A motionless image of motion, or not. It might be a record of rest, a pause to see where one is, is going, or has been. A rest to make sure that one is alone, when solitude is safety. Or with like, when others mean reliable responses, and a chance to make self. Although it is not really self, but another. Yet, to sow self means to be part of the future, and assume to influence it.

The trace is a focused true touching, or a brush of mere passing, or a death mask impression of being. A chemically sculpted object, whose life motion and lyric sounds have stopped, and just missed its forced silence, while likes scurry away.

It is an accidental graveyard, not planned, but allowed to exist by fixative fluids seeping through piles of grains, glued by near-surface actions, then cemented by pressure into rock that holds that pressure, and by holding, ignores it, while waves of waters flood through subatomic space looking for places that are perfect. 

Fossil traces are gifts from the earth gods.

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