Let my bones be better traveled after flesh has attended

and hindered.

Let them rattle on a string around the neck of creatures,

bold and roaming,

with beast hair, polished stones and a herbaceous plait;

charms healing.

Let my ribs protrude at a jaunty angle from plains, barren

and desiccated;

let them, though broken and hollowed, pick sonatas from hot

meandering winds

and with stealth and over-the-shoulder looks let the locals

gather to listen.

Let my femur be a gnaw bone for a she-wolf full bellied

and contented;

let her trot her bouncing-rear gait, muzzle lowered, wary

eyes intent,

to her suckling pups to share; accepting yelp-thanks with

long tongue caresses.

Let my skull be a prop held and caressed by sweaty hands

by those possessed;

let them hold my diminished, polished visage and declare,

“Alas, poor poet..”

and recite true the words of those aiming to discern order

from disorder.

Let a part of my bones be cast to burn and given to those

that love me;

let them with a final sigh of assent puff the dust leeward from

cupped palms

onto a receding tide to a current returning with no haste

to tropical shores.

Let me push my body bones up from this chair, away from

this screen;

let me walk across the room to the window and the scene

passing unaware,

and pressing against sun warmed panes leave hand prints;

flesh intact.

February 2002