Bone Lake
There are many bones in the lake.
King Fishers and Great Blues
carry the small ones away
to weave them into platforms
high in the wind whisked sky.
They are always looking for more,
so also is the fisherman with his scouring net
trawling these waters.
The cops are out hunting
for the unlicensed and strays,
there are plenty in these lawless times.
The bone-taking fisherman
snags the bones
that the birds cannot carry off.
Back in his shack,
in the low tangled woods,
he is constructing hollow forms
none of them yet complete.
“Loneliness is a terrible burden,”
he tells the half-made
skeletal constructions.
The bones are impatient
to be works of art,
and no longer want to found
murdered or drowned.
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