Friday, October 21, 2011

When the bone man comes
He brings a mirror

You recognize the likeness

He doesn't exactly ask
if you're ready

A whisper like the dry rustle
of autumn, leaves

The question hangs between

From spring into summer
summer into fall
the girl falters
the crone takes over

At night, after dark
under covers,
the fingers explore
caverns under the ribs
cradle of hipbone
hills and valleys of the spine
knobs of wrist and knee

Flesh fled, face collapses
everything woman about you
going and gone

Almost ready bone man

Come again soon, tea's
nearly on the table

17 October 2011

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