were made of something heavier than bone,
more like flint or quartz. A field of grass
was like a sinking bog to us. The ocean
hung above our heads, like poison gas.
Falling, our bones would never break.
We'd break whatever we landed on, instead,
small trees, each other. We'd leave a wake
of broken things. In death we'd look like dead
soft animals, caught in traps of stone,
a spread out cairn we'd slowly rot inside.
We came back as tools, as monuments, our bones
glitter from walls and pathways, are displayed
in museum cases, dated from a people
who came long after us, who found us useful.
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