The ceremonial removal of bone
I picture it
As an epitome of images
-
A hot sound combing through fragments,
An arm, fingers.
For I have seen them reaching
Consuming the inches for some greater home
Tendrils and sinews, chastising and melting.
Still the gulls scream
Down on the coast.
I have spent many a winter here
Lulling hot words around this dull mouth
Waiting to cry –
That the world is cruel, yet in this distant town
The sky is clear
And bodies move like clouds.
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