Wailing Cliffs

Understandably, peering
Into possible futures
By sifting through present pasts,

You expect seams of middens
In the mountains, just as now
You find seams of dunes with bones.

But along with the plastic
And compressed iron girders,
We expect we will be there,

Seams of language, seams of words,
Which means reams of stories, too.
There will be. Every corner

You poke your head in explodes
Into stories already.
You’ll leave the world stuffed with words

With prayers tucked into ruins,
Even if there’s no one left
Of you among us who reads.