I am obsessed with catching the errant
trilobite in our house. He's still a fist-
sized woodlouse in armor, but he's evolved
the hands of a prospector. He watches me
watch him sneak into a grocery bag.
Then he laughs and flies away. I chase him,
toppling a bowl of Permian time
pieces. The trilobite lands on a picture
album on our drawing room floor. I leap,
only to find calcite without substance
beneath. You lie beside me, holding out
your arm. Trilobites scuttle about your wrist.
You pet them and feed them bits of sulfide.
If our fossils don't split the rent, I'll die.
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