"...almost as if I'm making her and this poem and my past
up as I go, to help me feel nothing

goes to waste, not even waste."      Making do, Bob Hicok


This coiled-spring day
light fades as it always does.
Shadows of trees link across the meadow.
Night winding up as day winds down,
with the loose grip, soft touch of the Dead.

There are bones in that meadow,
broken bones, strewn, unburied,
piled beneath trees, clawing the air
for a gate or doorway back;
or, this is a poem, and, shadow
is playing tricks in the boneset.

But then what is that sound I hear?
Voices from past poems? Gibberish
still trying to make a point?
To you? To me?
To all the bones beneath the trees.