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.