I rose from dust, excavated the earth's
cracked skin, let seasons stumble
beneath my feet. I blundered on,

into unknown strata and time,
followed riverbeds to their source,
emptied my pockets of sand.

Hot blasts weathered my feeble
protest. Who will quarry my bones,
assemble the shards, hold my skull

for scrutiny? I turn empty sockets
toward the observer, who must be
careful not to create myths of her own.

There is no tongue between my grin.
I might preach to the stones,
mad as the sea and wind – this story *

may lie buried forever, inside mountains,
split from time and significance.
These bones. This dust.