My Bones!

my bones!
a death effigy,
a man that waits—
and points—
mouth ready with
and monogomous—
mine only,
death’s head silent
what is in a bone?
our next life’s latency,
our hybrid eye—
and as for pointing,
what holly wands are
the outstretched fingers—
making maledictions—
our bones may say,
and mark in certain
spatial terms
where oneself absolutely
ends—but there are
other’s bones across the
gulf, entombed,
it is our curse—they will
drag us screaming
down to hell, so
come what may
with every bone we
move, and wave,
and wait.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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