more bones

Scatter my bones into the sea,
across the table --
into the cracks of the dinner table --
between your fingers.
Scatter my bones onto the crisping pages that hold together your manifestos,
your treaties,
your guidebooks,
your classic literature.
Toss my bones into your sweating beverages;
let the dust sweeten the bitter kick.
Toss my bones into the closet where they become
the playthings of ancient history.
Let my bones burn in the sunshine,
melt them and bake them and freeze --
Let them loose in the air so that they form some
mystic message;
they are cold and will need some warmth.
Gather the dust and wear it as a warm bath --
itching and scathing and trickling.
Recreate me in the warm light, in the soft light,
in the snow.
Carve me anew to the fingertips, to the dusty inside,
then touch me, scatter me, pinch me apart
and I'll become what I once was --