bones

I no longer want bones.

mushrooms and fungus

for the support of growth and visions.

I'd first prefer hollow reeds

like bird wing bones and I'd pack them

with tobacco to smell like a southern

summer evening.

and on the third night a mushroom

would grow and not a bone and I would thank god

for moss and birds and tobacco

and for the single mushroom

I'd stand upon to praise his name

in a vision of mourning

and a good morning for change.

*

I no longer want bones.

milk and sheep's wool instead

for the walking of paths in winter.

I came to this world with all

I will likely still have by the end.

I would prefer time's arrow wrapped

in yarn and lace and wet with milk.

not rigid as bones and marrow.

my uselessness is not unique

and neither is my limited beauty.

it is all like dead and death and fresh

wool from milk-heavy sheep.

If life will only take

my bones for these things

before it does for dust

I will be happy.

*

I no longer want bones.

the dry air calls me

though femurs and foot bones

anchor me down. I want science

to release me to fancy

instead of my lonely flesh tonight.

it's a high and solitary madness

that loves any man or

that any man would love.

I want the gust of nature

and time with Earth at last.

life is too long a delay before

we can abandon our skeleton

and finally seep like water

into the ground.

© 2011 Yorgo Douramacos