Treasures of a culture

Fire and glass reflected as smoke in mirrors.

A fork in the road, litter, like this wrapper, bottle, vessel, hand tools.

Artisan: colored ink, in part cursive curls, heartfelt loops, and snares,

we wrapped, and rapped, enrapt and bound ourselves.

Every opening begins with Roman squares, agoras, and edges

worn blurry and thin by so many eyes through ages, brittle

print-finger smudges to be dusted and all the while,

porous rocks erode into grainy pixel flashes, storage

boxes stack up, clouds let go, and by marrow

calcification holds together

bricks of pressed clay
                                     -for shelter is always a wall.

Supporting para-graphs, columns, and beams-by

lighted button codes:
green, go, yellow, slow, red, blood, blue screen of death,

only to touch here, like plucked strings
of stereocilia stimulating

goosebumps in sound waves that wash over us in wet streams.

Eye contact, nerve endings, radiant warmth from a mortal smile,
laser focus, photography un-posed, unprepared, ad-libbing and adding

depth of perception, this is us-

Totaled and broken down to the smallest things

in order to count the time more accurately

in minute fractions of eternity,

Well, this is why we bury things. 




Photo credit By Max Peronius (1907-1946), Tankavaara c. 1934 in[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.