Place of the Skull

All we leave behind us, intangible,
Inconsequential, indistinct drifts
Of old papers, postcards from
Inishbofin ferry, tickets for long
Defunct plays
This alone is distinguished, high-domed
Vault of brain, no other like it in all
The animal realm, unmistakable. 
Our trademark and avatar, grinning
With all the crooked teeth on display
Piled outside the gates of 
The sacked city, polished and revered
Among those who still have reverence
Bleached white under the junipers
Along the arroyo, patinated brown, 
Candle rising from the brain pan
Empty sockets beholding disappeared joys,
Vanished terrors
All we ever felt leaping in our breast
Mediated within the bony orbit.

The earth is filled with skulls
Fruit of our mortality dropped over-ripe
or green like wind blown apples
from the tree of life, gathered in drifts
indistinguishable as the hickory nuts
we children gathered in leaf shadowed
woods. 

Where is the place of the skull? The giant
Holds it above weary shoulders. Niches
Of the old altars stand empty, but it is
The mark of our time, this time, 
And place. Is there no difference then between the 
Giant foam rubber calavera and the rotten
Cranium weathering out from the old
Churchyard into the rising sea below
One to gather dust in suburban garage crypt
The other, ground away by rock and wave
Adding phosphorous and fineness 
To white sand that will be. Cartoonish
Screaming from the pickup rear window
Tattooed on the would-be death bringer’s
Neck, as if by some wishful power they might
Gain power, avoid their symbol as their
Last estate. Bespectacled on moss 
Encrusted tombstone, flagstone floor
Of the ruined church covers hundreds-
Grandmothers, babies who never saw the light,
Strong men who sat their saddle too tall
In the lightning storm.

But this is not the place of the skull. 
The place of the skull is that low hill
To the east, almost concealed with 
Modern shopping malls, apartment
Houses, conveniently
Central, but easy to ignore.
 Negligible to climb, honeycombed
With caves like eye sockets, caves
Filled with the skulls of men, 
The first men, the first man, 
The old ones, inexpressibly old, 
Waiting for deliverance in their
Unmentionable import.

The last man will not need the space. 
The new ones leave only ash and 
Good intentions. A tall tree rises
From the rocky ground, dividing 
Shadow like the sundial of eternity-
All changes, but the bony husks
Of our ever hopeful brains
Gather drifted like the mast of the forest
In red autumn, nurture the wild things
That are coming after, wild hopes
Wild terrors laid bare by the impending storm.

The holy well lies dry now, clogged, 
Grown thick with rushes, where the 
Old saint picked up his tyrant-severed 
Head and quietly walked down to see
The beach one more time, to hear 
The waves break once more on 
The round-stoned beach.