Like a frame within a frame the fossil
carried a carcass, a carapace,
and its own casket in another casket,
its own natural sarcophagus.
I never told anyone this story:
in a summer like this I ate a nectarine
until its rough corduroy pit, continued
rolling and chewing it until it hinged
open, and an inert spider, sitting
in white wisp, was inside like a small jewel.
How does a thing feel real. The layers
comprising me are, reductively, soft
hard, soft, an easy sift to the truth
but the hard sell and swallow done anyway.