Tuesday, April 23, 2013


I'm a pile of bones,

clattering, too loud for a jaunt through the desert.

Fold me up, a wooden marionette,

put me in the chest with the other

old toys and scrapbooks.

Or take me, piece by piece,

detaching me by two-foot lengths,

line me up and wonder me

into something new--use these bones

like Lincoln logs, build me into a cabin

where caterpillars crawl to spin themselves

a tight bed, where within,

wings are made.

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