Poets are archaeologists of life.

Down at the site,
equipped with pen and paper
for bristle brush and trowel,
they extract
sharp, shattered, scattered shards
and calcified bone,
fossils from our pasts,

connecting us to a millennia of themes
stretching from the apes first confused thought
through their own four score and seven
allotment of living,

removing,
with the alchemy of their art,
dirt, rock, scat and skag
revealing the gleaming remainder,

a glistening poem,

a Clovis blade
to rip the heart.