In A Cave

In a cave.

Remnants
of other visits
by other beings.

Stink of guano. 
Beetles skittering.

Shining in the floor
where one beam
strikes, a small broken
white bone.

Pull it from dirt,
take it out into sunlight…
are those cut marks?
tooth scrapes? runes?
One end sharp as
suspicion. Smooth
as if sanded overall,
except for those gouges,
and bleach-pale.

Stink of guano,
beetles skittering.

Was it weapon, leftover
from a meal, souvenir of
an enemy, nothing even
related to human
being?

It is sharp. It is
bleach-pale. It is
telling that 

first thought is
a human 
act created it:
a violent act;
a taboo act
with some hidden meaning;

a common, easily
repeated act

conceived
ages ago
amid stink of guano
in which beetles thrived,
first dreamed up

in a cave.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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