Keeper of the Bones

Keeper of the Bones
The old man told me he himself had died a long, long time ago. He pointed to a distant plain, a tide of earth that once bled mountains of their loam. The harvest there is rich, he said, it never ends, the fingers, limbs, and skulls. In the sun beside his hut, an ancient cart trembled beneath a village of bones, A genocide of sightless eyes that sang the wind proud and low and long, An insane congregation borne by wooden wheels, a cemetery without a home. From out across the plain, the old man touched my fleshless, bleached-white arm. From out across the plain, I too became a keeper of the bones. *October 8, 2005* Previous Entry Next Entry Return to Songs and Letters About the Author	Main Page Author�s Note Background Notebook A Listening Thing Among the Living No Time to Cut My Hair One Hand Clapping Songs and Letters Collected Poems Early Short Stories Armenian Translations Interviews News and Reviews Highly Recommended Let�s Eat Favorite Books & Authors Useless Information Conversation E-mail & Parting Thoughts Flippantly Answered Questions
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