June 9, 2011
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My bones become solid, they know where they are.

They turn their heads and leave their necks
and know where they are.

Stain their lips with the sawdust of mold;
the age of floorboards – where my bones are.

My knowing meets the molding
of your tendon – creates a joint,
woven of varnished thread. We bend
and stretch and ache and rub. We grind
our skulls down to a simple wheat. Then watch
the ashes seep through faulty gates of flesh.

Allow the windowpane a separate birth

and let out your 360 legs. A geometric figure rising
to meet the buckling knees of newborn glass

with complexities protruding, with edges
of gossamer, a center of missing and not knowing

what is – that threshold that lingers. We know
only absence. It is cavity, it is elbow, it is space
intended to shelter the docile rotation of a scalpless
head. Bone knows head caved in, sunk through
the collarbone of cedar two millennia ago. Thinks
head lost the will without scalp. Scalp lost the purpose.

Bone misses head. Bone meets tendon. Bone is joint.

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