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Sing me a thrush, bone. 
Sing me a nest of cup and pestle. 
Sing me a sweetbread fr an old grandfather. 
Sing me a foot and a doorknob, for you are my love. 
Oh sing, bone bag man, sing. 
Your head is what I remember that Augusty 
you were in love with another woman but 
taht didn't matter. I was the gury of your 
bones, your fingers long and nubby, your 
forehead a beacon, bare as marble and I worried 
you like an odor because you had not quite forgotten, 
bone bag man, garlic in the North End, 
the book you dedicated, naked as a fish, 
naked as someone drowning into his own mouth. 
I wonder, Mr. Bone man, what you're thinking 
of your fury now, gone sour as a sinking whale, 
crawling up the alphabet on her own bones. 
Am I in your ear still singing songs in the rain, 
me of the death rattle, me of the magnolias, 
me of the sawdust tavern at the city's edge. 
Women have lovely bones, arms, neck, thigh 
and I admire them also, but your bones 
supersede loveliness. They are the tough 
ones that get broken and reset. I just can't 
answer for you, only for your bones, 
round rulers, round nudgers, round poles, 
numb nubkins, the sword of sugar. 
I feel the skull, Mr. Skeleton, living its 
own life in its own skin. 


Submitted by RW

Added: 24 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 15 Oct 2008 10:44 PM | Viewed: 5885 times

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