Dry Your Bones

We found the shallow hearts
taken away in their grimness.

A collection of fancy woes
and tiny feet,
brimming with the dust
of the dead.

A forbearance of things, unseen,
a world, unsaid,
a universe, unspoken
into nonexistence.

Shall we take the hand
lent to us by the gods?

And shall the dance be made
of circles in the river of sand?

Dry your bones, you weeping eyes
and gird your flesh for the coming,
the shunning, the stunting and
the wilt of the withered hand,

the glossing eye and the circles,
circles, circles.

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