I am a skeleton poet
I have to have lived and died
To write again
Get hold of my bones
Lay them in a line
Try to figure out the sense
Where did I come from
How was this thing arranged?
Everything was blown up you see
When he died
He had to write himself back into life
They rearranged his pieces like a puzzle
A shoulder blade from India
A collar bone from Bangkok
From England his muzzle
A thigh bone from the Russian step
And a rib cage from Mexico
It all came together
An Everyman
So they say
This skeleton poet
Who came to read on that summer's day
He is gone now
Into the grasses
Under the earth for to recline
Forever and a day
Maybe in rebirth you will find
Him writing poems
Again
About this or that or other
About how they sold the Times
About how he loved his mother
And what would a woman
Skeleton say back?
Shake her bones
Rattle the bone sack
Tell us poems are things of clay
The flesh has wrought desire
But words are the bones that hold fast
After the music has been burnt by fire
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