Archaeology
Kurt MacPhearson
Tattered remnants lurking in the heart
of a dig,
bones lain in fetal position
beside pottery shards.
The life I have lived
may one day be read
by the same methods.
But will the scholar know
of the crimes,
the love lost,
horrors visited in the dark
of my dreams?
Could they be broken down,
a linear map
that would somehow make sense
of my existence
and locate the point where I went wrong?
