Skull
The lower jaw self-unhinges
as the skull gnaws
a recollection of a bygone face,
now it must use the roaming poems
of restless winds
as its surrogate voice.
You kiss that sad cranial dome,
where a forehead once pondered
upon the meaning of everything.
Your eyes are now the very wellspring’s
of a hidden depth, which will always be that
unsolved mystery of you.
Now here in your cupped hands,
you cradle the foolishly grinning remains
wondering if this was God’s first word
or last.
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