Sweat rises from the ground, oozes
Through my hair as I bend and lift
Uprooted weeds from soft, dark soil.
I find a piece of bone. Elsewhere,
Some other place or country, I
Might have asked to whom it once belonged
And if there was, beneath the spade’s edge
History asserting old claims
Upon the present? The dead know
All about equivocation,
Denial, lines of remorseless logic.
Must they sing again their
Songs of lamentation before
We cease our fumblings
In the charnel-pit of words?