Those are my bones rifted

    and curled， knees to chin，

    among the rocks on the beach，

    my hands splayed beneath my skull

    in the mud. Those are my rib

    bones resting like white sticks

    wracked on the bank， laid down，

    delivered， rubbed clean

    by river and snow.

    Ethereal as seedless weeds

    in dim sun and frost， I see

    my own bones translucent as locust

    husks， light as spider bones，

    as filled with light as lantern

    bones when the candle flames.

    And I see my bones， facile，

    willing， rolling and clacking，

    reveling like broken shells

    among themselves in a tumbling surf.

    I recognize them， no other's，

    raggedly patterned and wrought，

    peeled as a skeleton of sycamore

    against gray skies， stiff as a fallen

    spruce. I watch them floating

    at night， identical lake slivers

    flush against the same star bones

    drifting in scattered pieces above.

    Everything I assemble， all

    the constructions I have rendered

    are the metal and dust of my locked

    and storied bones. My bald cranium

    shines blind as the moon