Is There Something to Do With My Hands?

Stories of slopd in neatly alongside tombs that should have stayed closed, angry and unquiet spirits. They always happen to some one five steps removed, untraceable and mythic. And the idea of fleeing that i feel in my chest like a second heartbeat. Ah, nothing but superstition and disquiet in a strange setting. I watch my feet all the way over to the edge of the spoil heap and begin to sift through the mound of earth,. A little at a time in case of artifacts. When the wind picks up and up, i dull the melady of the spines with a sensation of dirt beneath my finger nails., weighing rocks in my hands to

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