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edo strannikov

Poor Yorick


To silence suffocations of the dead,
the archaeologist digs with his head:
dirts spaded up, thrown out to help them breathe,
not asking whether rescue makes them seethe—

“my sockets cannot stand this glaring light!”
“my rotten teeth don’t shine so nicely bright!”
“my aching limbs were warm beneath that dirt—
you didn’t even think to bring a shirt!”

The archaeologist embodies cares,
harvests mouthless skulls, no jaws to spare:
so much has changed since last they saw this world—
their skulls should spin atop those spines that curled!

Those skeletons must take things lying down—
like upright sentiments of reigning clowns.

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