handled
I think what a gift it must be
to what remains of memory
and the acts of life in these
calcium honeycomb bones,
the eon slow expiring, a
half-life measure, how it must
be for them, so fragmentary
and forgot, to rest
in the cradle and pulse
of your palm and feel
the brush of your thumb
upon them, calling out
each storied hollow each
telling crest.