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Vagrant Fossils
by Binnie Pasquier
An old friend, California canyon hippie
hairline receded by the glaciers,
says if we journeyed back five hundred years
we’d vibrate at a different pitch
and be invisible.
We could see them,
only moving slowly
as if through syrup.
If mystics and physicists are right
time happens all at once,
little dust whirls spinning beside the dumpster
could be land-shaping tornadoes,
the gritty ridge of snow where the parking lot ends-
a dinosaur’s plated back,
and the white tunnel of sycamores lining the highway-
a bleached bone rib cage.
I spend the bulk of time
swimming in subconscious clutter
and collective illusions of the past,
present only when
a moment lifts and settles me in the sun’s spread
and I breathe a gentle run of warm air
surprised and grateful
as the first creature
plucked from sea to earth.