Asphalt, bituminous, concrete, cement—
the whole place is case-hardened, carapaced.
The air shimmers with heat; tree roots can’t breathe;
no poured libation seeps down to the dead.
When we were children, this was open ground,
farm field once, where we scraped and scrounged, intent
on grubbing up that other world, the past.
Old wounds—the Minié ball, the arrowhead—
spat blood here. Now the grimy runoff seethes
into the storm drain from the parking lot.
This is the way we cloak our own unease,
muzzling what the cracked clay might have said.
The pavement lies tight-lipped, impenitent.
The scabrous memory writhes here, underneath.