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                                       wielkiemu Puciowi
They dig them up and then 
measure each bone, 
leave no stone unturned, 
no earring lost. 
 
They dig and tell us tales
of bygone days, as if these artifacts
burried deep in some shaky pasts 
still breathed, still could sing. 
 
They pick a bone and stick a name onto it; 
today this name, tomorrow, 
with changed hypothesis 
another, fitting better still. 
 
They dig them up 
and then lay down in a cardboard box; 
leave them in store to be
dug up again some other time.
 
Sometimes I let my eyes rest 
on the page of a forgotten dissertation,  
yet cannot see what it so clearly states: 
a man out of a shuttered bone, 
a woman of a blouse and ring, 
a child of a skull not yet mature.
It's all because I want to know
if lady's breasts were firm or soft,
what was the business of that man
found close to her, and
was the child his, or hers, or theirs?
 
No answers there to be found,
however strong the theory.
I close the book, put my coat on,
and leave for some bones fleshy still.