The skeleton speaks.
I have been dreaming since
my breath turned to cobwebs,
poised for all time with my
left hand on my cheek,
conspiring with forever.
Even the bedrock’s bored as hell.
Beads were found strewn as if
by design against my clavicle, between
my ribs. Some were cupped in
the socket of one hip joint, like a nest
of hummingbird eggs.
Later, they’ll discover the
pollen grains of seven
kinds of flowers,
remains of the offerings of mourners.
None of this is really important.
That pull, that yearning
for eternal love –
to be cherished for all time –
there’s the last artifact.
Time makes us humble
in the face of pride.
Cracked me up when I finally got the joke
of overtures as useful as embalming.
We will all be intimates in dust.
