The bones drag
Rattling in the sack
Stubborn, rebellious
In their subtle ways.
It is dark in the sack,
Impartially perfect
For conspiracies
Among chips, splinters
Parts that respond
Screech protest chats
Subsonic but well within
Range of consciousness
All vestiges of softness
Or memory are gone
Only brittle shards of
Pain crackling with
Blue electricity
Are left to sing of
What once was
This bag of bones.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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