Burial GroundsStoneIn a valley a woman unearths a 40,000 year old bead.She palpates the pitted surface with her fingers, squinting through its tiny hole.The world before her — blue, green — gold.Beneath her feet, the compact gritty matterupon which an ancient people gathered.Long ago, in the legendless universe before this bead,danger was more magnificent than art.She pauses, looks toward the horizon, then squatsto search for the tool that formed the opening.AshSometimes she finds a leg bone;sometimes part of a pelvis;sometimes an entire torso, every rib preserved.The draw to ruin is strong in her.She loves parts — stories.She unearths a skull, holds it high.Within her, breath expands,and the cavities of the eyes fill.GlassMultitudes stream across borders. Through an open window, ripples of angerare like the skin of an onion, easily ignored,hardly worth the trouble of crushing.She whispers in my ear — earth is the only anchorHalfway around the globe, a storm, masturbating to its own incantation, pulls into it — wood, stone, steel — skin, bone, hair.