but carefully
using an archaeologist’s tools
not a gravedigger’s
or a foundation excavator’s
it’s not the hole I’m after
but traces of facts
I sort the rubble
searching for evidence
I would be happy to find shards of mercy
compassion
or even kindness
maybe they do not preserve
instead I find broken shells of edification
wood clawed by fingernails and toes
ashes unexplained
tatters of photographs
and shreds of Bible stories
a seashell that I uncover
sings hymns into my ear
perhaps, I tell myself, perhaps
I keep digging in the wrong place
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