“ . . . at this moment, or any moment, we are only a cross-section of our real selves. What we really are is the whole stretch of ourselves, all our time . . .”—J. B. Priestley, Time and the Conways (1937)
The long bones speak as plainly as the skull,
and the tomb's paleolithic, not mine;
the vessel took on flesh to shape its hull--
dreams dreamt up in a forgotten valley.
This life of ours is but a pinhole sally,
the puzzle is to fit it all together and hear
the long bones speaking, near.
