Bones lay indolently,
and anatomically,
against a tree in the forest.
Sunbeam for a crown,
loam for a throne,
the bones speak.
Are you more dead than I?

Brown rags slump
on skin stretched
taut on beating breathing
body sitting in front
of a cook fire.
Voice shakes like his raised hand.
You speak. You’re not dead.

Vines with leaves twine
bleached bone as nerves
once did carrying impulse
pain and self.
As veins and arteries once did,
coursing blood instead of light.
Then echoes are alive.

The man’s eyes hold firelight
like muddied water
holds the sun.
Sparkle lost along with
his given name;
Water too dirty to catch it again.
Shadows are alive too.

A bee gathers pollen—
flitting like smoke in rain—
over a yellow flower
blooming out the jawbone.
A curved pipe for the lord
against a tree in a wood.
Pride or petulance?

More darkness than teeth
in the laugh of the man
with unused crows feet
and no gold to repair
cracked pottery lips.
He shrugs like a leaf.
What’s one without the other?