I have a terrible need to find words,
to hunt them out from underground
with the help of a good cadaver dog,
to root them up from their caverns
and tombs and stack them –
femur, backbone, ribcage, skull –
into the body of this passing day.

Tomorrow I could build another form;
Tuesday another, and on and on.
One day, I would build a thing that speaks:
I want nothing from you, nothing more…
Bodies enough for the rest of my life,
all hung on wires through the knobby spine
like tattered coats. All swinging
in a gentle breeze, all turning
then to watch me walk away.