Digging here in the clutter
Of clam and scallop shells, I sift the detritus,
Betraying like broken porcelain
The haunt of humanity . . . pathway
into time.
Here the dark dirt is
Rich in ancient death. The sunlight
Washes the hills heaped by glaciers.
In the curve of the shore
A fisherman rakes the same shelled nutrient
From the velvet ooze. The upright animal's
Needs change hardly at all -- food, a little
Love -- but to-day the flint
Grows a menacing edge. Old hunter, the tool,
The shell, filled your pragmatic eye, your world
Was rimmed by this blue shore, these hills.
Archaic realist, you are too close to us!
The legacy speaks for itself --
A few fragile bones,
The passionate dust of appetite and fear,
And a stone scraper that fits accurately
Into the palm of the hand.
H.R. Hays: The New York Public Library
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