Last Tasmanian Tiger, Thylacine, 1933

vague_clothing

gaze

the night will always contain the sun
calming its infinitey into impossible single digits
into a petticoat for translucent shadows

circle--
tentacles sprouting from its circumference
archetype unknown
--is the battered tree trunk from yesterday's walk
mapping the intricacies of forgotten turns
and three dimensional letters
ready with garish wings to fly over childhood cities
undiscriminating, listing each place as the benchmark of a growing heart
plotting a dot dispassionate for found pieces
grinding absolution over dusty faces once again

and thirty minute diurnal trails--
a walk that continues sternly into the recesses of nameless trees,
trapped above an opaque deluge of drying unknowns, a fourth of a century old and more--
can hardly be a daily activity

for an archeologist this is a simple matter
excavating is a presentable, un/attached occupation
the death of so many loved ones, head in hand
a 6000 year old city is quickly exchanged for a new bloodline and numerous trains

time tracking itself--hoarding the preciousness of all caves combined,
arranged in the neat chronology of unrequited conquests
the land forces itself forward, lover/mother, forgetting its own lap

the dynasties we read about, holding up integrity to the onslaught of new generations
perforated integrity, sabotaged as such by tiny tots with buckets of color water
screeching over my silence
absolved resolve
mirrors held up to hide each other

if one of its properties is x=beauty
can any of its other properties, like y, be known
(something has changed/cinched)
and, as such,
can it ever have anything at all
blinding
the ground around it barren
in the same world