Marrow

It is a fact, children have more bones than adults.

Age solidifies and calcifies us,
children; though younger, will splinter
into a puzzle of scattered bones
that add up to more than their parents.

The blood just seeps into the thirsting earth,
no matter the source, organs desicate
under the sun by the side of the road,
muted evidence of something beyond normal.

The bones are gnawed by predators,
of which Time is the most persistent,
followed only by the wind, which rolls the bones
like dice across the landscape in some game
where no one knows the rules.

The DNA will tell you it was a little girl,
but only the wind knew her name.

Lyres83008

In 3, 2, 1

It nags at you like a broken nail
even after you file the rough edges away.

go ahead and laugh
but it speaks to you, certainly it does

these experiences we have-the sharing of laughter
the sympathy, the tears, the tugging of desire

you know you want to, you just never say so

It’s the missing punchline to the joke
you stopped telling midsentence

this is, again, like the missing man formation

This is you missing me missing you.

This is the realization
this is where unknowing crosses knowledge

this is where the story ends

When Angels Weep

It rains.

Don’t laugh,
my mother told me so.

Grandmother was more scientific,
she explained the cycle
of water and how
the dew evaporates up up into
the sky to condense into clouds
and when they get too heavy

it rains.

what is too heavy, I asked.

She said to ask an angel.