I think what a gift it must be
to what remains of memory
and the acts of life in these
calcium honeycomb bones,
the eon slow expiring, a
half-life measure, how it must 
be for them, so fragmentary
and forgot, to rest 
in the cradle and pulse 
of your palm and feel 
the brush of your thumb 
upon them, calling out 
each storied hollow each 
telling crest.