Archaeology

by Joseph P. Wood

I’m tired of turning this stone,
faint fern imprint on one side,
calling it fossil–a sterilized lie–

caveman feces, that’s the object
of scrutiny. His painted cave,
his flickering fire, his dino-burger:

sucked beneath this tar pit
a missile range abuts. Soldiers
bark their massive proclamations

but fail to understand why
their beds are filled with nails & teeth,
their eyes sink deeper in their sockets

when they’re not tired, just homicidal.
Every day should not be a mountain.
Every mountain should not be an excuse

for snow to encase the dead hiker.
Someone should call his family.
Someone should shut & kiss his eyes.