Archeology

I am extinct, the way some pachyderms are while others are not. Ice fields turn to desert, wind-straws evolve into sun hats. An archaeologist wearing a straw hat discovers my skull. She crouches down, sweeps a small brush over my partly exposed dome. I like her fingers. they cup, and they measure, they feel the weight of things dispersed, they honor what remains. The dimpled flesh over her knees kisses the earth. I like the shady eclipse of her. She sweeps dust from my eye-sockets; I recall wind and sky. She gently tugs me from the earth, carries my emptiness away. An era rides a sleep-walking tortoise. I count footprints in an Alzheimer's ward. Rain clouds are my dreams. Time buries its layers. I am underneath the above again. A lady archaeologist wearing a sun hat discovers my skull. She’s nice. Questions like: who, what and where do not arise.