the bones

The bones are not hollow
they are not dry or jangly
they are not like bamboo windchimes
They are not like bird bones
They are not so good for flying.
The bones are warm and wet and pulsating
The bones are hard yes
but not as rock as hard or wooden furniture
maybe like a living tree in its wetness and density
The bones are heavy and full of flop
They delight to spread
They don't get any longer when they stretch
They are effortless to lift

But the bones do not clatter when they fall
But the bones do tumble in a heap.

When the bones see the eyes can become smaller
not the sensory delight of skin touch or muscle knead and stretch
but another profound delight
an understanding of dense objects
an unmitigated bone-on-bone touch
the ease of fall and lift
never like a machine
but still the engineering of masterful components
each one perfectly shaped for its work
each bone delights to do its work.

The bones are not ego
The bones are not emotional
The bones are not insecure.
The bones are slightly insensitive
The bones are a little brutish
The bones move in lizard joy
In the plainness of skeletal existence.