Archival

History is a sky
overlooking a field
of burning tires

What do I know of gardens
in which a mystery of mushrooms
appears between seasons

I don't speak 
the language of vines or
the ferment of trellised fruit

History is never the rain 
but that which unburies 
a future of consequences
 
But what do I know of history
except what it shows me
of the unfathomable 

When I try to trace a thing
to its origin a sign pointing 
elsewhere goes up in its place