which used to litter
ancient cliffs,
and our needs
were the bellies
of enormous pack animals,
than the very first
decent snatch
of poetry on earth
was a blunt, bulky
hand ax, chiseled gracelessly
from flint.
More contemporary examples
of the art, such
as this
may come across
like the polished
obsidian tip
of an arrow
aimed straight at some
more modern creature,
but either way,
the outcome
is the same:
an uncouth attack,
made in desperation
on its heart—
which, now,
as back then, is a sack
filled with rocks.
