Untitled

Tripi 9 Anthony Tripi Bone fragments in Argentina. The skull was a man's. He had been hit by something like a hammer. Then he had been buried. It was his grave in which he did all the things people do in the ground. The skin dries, one day tears. I know as little about it as you do. Some time passed and one day they were digging and a shovel hit bone. That's all there is to say about it. They don't know who he was. They can figure out a lot of things, how old he was on that day, whether he brushed his teeth, gnashed them at night, which hand struck the blow, was it from the front or back, how clean was it. Was more than one chop necessary or was the person skilled at what he did. Later when his shift was over he must have gone home. We know in what hand he held his fork. We don't know what he ate, said to his wife, what he did to relax. They were probably the usual things. The head balanced now on a wooden board, a shelf in a shed of other bones. A camera scanned the shelf, pulled back, and I watched. ...