Windover, Florida

Fetal in the bog they lay, heads pointed west,
when the backhoe lifted clay from clay.
Skulls in the bucket. Whose were they?
Police said: Not from the prosecutable era
of crime. Science time. They found traces
of elderberry, death’s last stay, staining the muck
where stomachs decayed, which led them
to say this had been a burial ground. And the bodies
were staked down to keep them underwater—
it was a water tomb. Carbon said seven thousand years,
brains dead and pickled in the brine. They fed them
to the oracle, but DNA pronounced unclear.
Whose were they? The issue remained fogged.
A few made them white as if that were a light
to prove they’ve a right to this land.
But their land is sand—we’re all brown as the bog.

Vacuum

cosmos no air to breathe
like inside the machine
I push to suck crumbs
from my carpet my model’s
unique I bought it from
space so it’s invisible
and I’m the priest
hand raised every week
over the floors of my house
blessing all the dust sucked up
into the cup no one sees