Was literature never enough – it seemed like a rib removed
Sitting in plain sight on the top shelf
– was it keeping its dust well?
Bones become air-filled as they age
Lighter and lighter they become kindling
In your room – late at night – watching this part of you
It never seemed important enough to keep inside
You scratch up the walls trying to locate a femur of emotion
Does the formaldehyde smell of the funeral home lock night terror
A jarred finger-bone – a puce of some dead saint even
– do these things make you more?
I know that you wanted to be a serious writer – your face tells
That you thought it would be romantic and pious
Romantic piety looks like shimmering frustration
– how could you know that?
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