A swatch of skin--above the clavicle--
Look there. I turn the hairs, the one-inch-hints
Of Neolithic roots, where icicles
Line crowded malls. The men scrape skin with flint
And gold, hide kindling in the caves and chase
Gazelles on foot, their Nike swooshes doing
The job by dawn. Day two, we find the place
Where cavemen go to die: women chewing
Old leaves for sacred colas, hack-job priests
Excusing guts from signs, and channel-flipping
Subsisters watching, bloated, weak, while beasts'
Old bones are carved to last year's specs. They're chipping
Designer tools and leaving them about
In dig sites. Tugging hard, I rip them out.
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