The lights of the skeleton

have gone out.

The shadow still stands

like a blade of iron

with branches.

A smooth stone

rests in my hand.

I will break

the ice around my soul

by not throwing it.

Fences glint from the outskirts,

the wilderness is coming closer.

The fortress I left behind

is a ball of wet paper

caught up in a crooked wire.

The ledge sweats underneath

my ticking frame.

The cliff's drop tells me

I'm a dragon's tongue,

watching from outside

the airtight windows.

The tinsel of roads

is a rope of roaches.

Its net catches thoughtless dreams,

the bones of the hopeless.

The cave that paints my mouth

the moons of my many seeds

the runner that wrote this.

Paths part in the bud

and fornicate with the aftermath.

The staff without a flag

punctuates the desert.

Waters gather in the cloak of the ground

and sing to hell.  A numb claw clenches

the clapper of a ringing bell.