Nearing Autobiography

    Those are my bones rifted

    and curled， knees to chin，

    among the rocks on the beach，

    my hands splayed beneath my skull¹

    in the mud. Those are my rib²

    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 translucent³ as locust⁴

    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，

    raggedly⁵ patterned and wrought⁶，

    peeled as a skeleton of sycamore

    against gray skies， stiff as a fallen

    spruce. I watch them floating

    at night， identical lake slivers⁷

    flush against the same star bones

    drifting in scattered⁸ 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