Wherever they put their feet, the herdsmen beyond bleak Astrakhan
Scuffle in flint chips older than all arrows.
Past the concrete end of a runway in Seattle, bulldozers find
The sprawled, imponderable bones of giant sloths.
Men stamping their feet for their lives in Rome have fallen
Down through the hollow streets to catacombs.
Under the flights of rain, clay dogs, clay men come tumbling
Into Oaxaca valleys like messages.

Digging for worms in Saratoga Springs, boys unearth muskets
And buckles, the green brass of revolutions.

In cities like kitchen middens, men crack the halves of themselves
And then go rich in a heap to be lived on.

Where I grew up--in the swamp east of Chicago--if you stamp your foot
You stay right where you are and what you are:
Ditch-diggers in bogs and slag find nothing but Prohibition Man--
Thick skulls, gold teeth, and pointed preserved shoes.

Published with permission, © 2006 by David Wagoner. First appeared in Light Quarterly 52/53:79.