they do not
make for
reading chairs;
these piles of bone.
jarring phalanges
too intimate,
nudge and press the skin
of our seats with that night
etched deep into calcium.
the bones are still
and we can not.
shift and sway.
piles of bones
do not make for
tea-time ottomans
but do brew
things you could never guess to tell
just by looking at her,
those never-never-agains
and silly-lost selves,
found now to ossify,
and dissolve off of our brains
but leave us sitting
foolishly, uncomfortably
on unoriginal secrets.