Those are my bones rifted br and curled, knees to chin, br among the rocks on the beach, br my hands splayed beneath my skull br in the mud. Those are my rib br bones resting like white sticks br wracked on the bank, laid down, br delivered, rubbed clean br by river and snow. br br Ethereal as seedless weeds br in dim sun and frost, I see br my own bones translucent as locust br husks, light as spider bones, br as filled with light as lantern br bones when the candle flames. br And I see my bones, facile, br willing, rolling and clacking, br reveling like broken shells br among themselves in a tumbling surf. br br I recognize them, no other's, br raggedly patterned and wrought, br peeled as a skeleton of sycamore br against gray skies, stiff as a fallen br spruce. I watch them floating br at night, identical lake slivers br flush against the same star bones br drifting in scattered pieces above. br br Everything I assemble, all br the constructions I have rendered br are the metal and dust of my locked br and storied bones. My bald cranium br shines blind as the moon.