In the Seeking

If you climbed into the words,
no striations in their hollows would offer new layers 

or emerge as richly veined insights
in the dizzying rise of Midas’ lust.

If you were to conceive relics 
you would find they include stone only to transcend it,

when you open the tomb you can feel their lightness.
But the wind sanded rubble is losing face—

and dust wrapped saints spend years
without feeling even the staccato wind

or the sting of embalming spices 
enticing their bones to stay.

© A. M. Benoit