dig through bones left behind
when you’ve stripped away
fat
and bulk, skin
and shape

re-assemble them as you wish —
don’t feel obliged
to retain original shape —
trust that those who may see it
will see how it was and still
understand what you’ve made of it

for the sake of the overburdened
leave off the prattle
about beauty, soul, heart, crystalline visions,
exhortations to action,
overripe distinctions between
your varied sexual arousals
and the stink of your psyche’s
rotten moments

make the bones
do those things
instead
through the suggestions
they offer
of what you intended to say

(it should be noted
this advice has nothing to do with
ars poetica

it is the nature of metaphor
to make the thing it does not describe
more obvious through the subterfuge

you should know that)

for the sake of whatever you do
and believe in

stop making your profession
of those things
so complicated

make the bones the pure thing

we all carry enough
of our own remains with us
to dress them ourselves
from our own stores

radio
candle
mirror and movies
on the rack

witnesses
that may not know
how to testify

but
they see me
here

thinking of nothing

judging
the placement
of my
possessions

what must they think of me
crying poverty of experience
and boredom

while a hawk
hunts from the tree
just outside the window
raccoons are sleeping under the porch
and (the story goes)
no human on the planet
is less than six feet
from a spider

they cry

at least
turn us on
light me up
or look within

if you can’t be bothered
to step outside

In the city,
no one speaks of the nude gray boughs
of the street trees
or the frantic pre-snow scrambling
of the squirrels
or the rolling trips of the dead leaves
down the sidewalks
or the wind sticking its fingers
in our eyes

except as metaphor

for the lonely strands of our lives
not intersecting
except in random glances
or tossed off commentaries
on the threatening weather

we forget
we are animals
preparing to hunker down
in want and need
during the season

we do not want to consider
that urban
is another word for hive
or that urbane
is another way of saying
we lie when we are outdoors
and pretend we’re not
susceptible
to being
cold