I would curl tight in my conch shell
and ignore their feelers and blind, feeling eyes.
I would curl so tight that my atoms would condense.
I would be an ammonite, tight on the ocean floor,
unfound until split by a geologist’s hammer.
I would be a fossil, shelved, doubtful as Darwin,
silent as the grave, and tight, so tight,
and trust would be a nonsense word,
and faith no more than letters arranged in a press,
and for all their instruments they would say no more,
than, this is a fossil. We will let it rest.