These bones are now but drying dates
shriveling in the sun. In the morning, they
squabble with each other like ravenous lovers.
Yet they are not strangers in my house, uninvited.
Nor are they pack animals, hard on the scent
of death. They still crave the lamp of midnight
stories sweetened with the truth of young wine.
They are still vessels of honey, pouring slowly
their devotions to the last breath.
I used to wake as a baker ready to feed a
village. Now I rise at dawn as fallen fruit, ripened in
dreams. This creaking wagon, the blessed bounty
of life, one morning shall rise to see the doors gone,
the windows thrown open and the sun shining
through the hole in this roof.