time capsule
we ground our hands against the sky,
letting fragments of our flesh fall down
to the rocks far below our feet. ten years on
the ground remembers, and opens up
like a lazy flower bud unfurling in late summer.
surprised at our touch, it reveals
an inner pulse of tangled veins
holding at their heart a little glass jar
filled with shards of us.
far below our leather feet,
which ten years ago, unshod, trod with care
the labyrinth of dirt pathways choking these cliffs,
the sea drums a heartbeat on the rocks.
they too remember our palms
sealing up the jar, letting it fall with a soft thud
to the bottom of our hand-dug hole.
I see it in your eyes. these scraps of paper
are useless now, and the handwriting
alien to our touch. these are not our words,
so carelessly formed, too large, unlinked.
with hearts too full of ourselves to cry out,
we carry the jar to the edge of the cliffs
and let go.
the sky swallows it up like the corpse of a bird,
catches it in blistered hands and grinds it down
to the size of an upraised finger
stood tall against the dull sea.