by Sarah Lindsay

    This mound¹ of dirt and the summer are heirs to transfer

    from what lies before and what lies behind，

    pinch by pinch. Of the mound， she keeps a record.

    The point， the students have been assured，

    is not to find objects. Their object is

    to understand the ground.

    What water did with it， when.

    how often earthworms combed and cast it.

    Whether it was tilled or thrust aside，

    which seeds lay in it， which pollens² settled.

    When it's too dark to dig， she makes a tent

    of reading assignments. A chapter on similarities

    between spear points unearthed³ in Virginia

    and Soultrean points in Spain，

    both kinds wrought⁴ as though for beauty

    and cached in heaps of red ocher. Another book

    invites her to peer at the keyhole shape of a bone

    the size of her index finger， engraved⁵

    these ten thousand years with forty strokes——

    fourteen， eight， eleven， then seven——and polished.

    A tally⁶， a game， the score？

    We'll never know. And here's a review

    of arguments about a broken rock

    that might have been bashed into useful shape

    deliberately⁷， with another rock，

    by some original axe-making biped，

    or might be a geofact， a tease，

    a found axe——or no tool at all.

    She douses⁸ the light

    and all the words disappear.

    Morning， back to the mound. It's two mounds⁹ now；

    she knows it halfway¹⁰ through， its wayward layers，

    silky and barren or matted with nutrients¹¹，

    heavy clay， a thousand shades of brown.

    She sees it with her eyes shut， with her palms，

    sometimes tastes it. Leaves the flints and bones

    to thrill-seekers and visionaries.

    Dirt answers her questions. She has dug past

    any props or plots or characters

    to the stuff all stories walk on

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