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.
Copyright © Jason Knight | Year Posted 2007
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