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Poem

At night the city is full of bones
And they
Are very dry

Beneath the trample of urban feet
They are ground

But to live, these dry bones
Must drink words

Sad nervous me, I stammer
Against those arid limbs
Grinding bone-dust songs

Into scattered fragments spun from raging blades

But realizing so many so, I sputter
Thought-hacked soul-flakes, soaring
Crooked in an angry wind. . .

Though stinted, inconsiderable, I say them
Spit them down the papered street
Into a shadow where the dew will stay

And some anonymous day some
Stray seed will grow on them
And suckle upon a speck of misty bone

And though the nights will continue
To align the humps of an un-slaked dune
Something out of this sand will rise

Small, and secretly original

And I will be part of her: 
my bony, blue, and sensual city

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