Under gray sky,
the body idles,
until found by a passerby,
until the cops, the ambulance,
arrive.
The morning
trudges slowly through clouds
nine-tenths of its light unseen,
while the dead man
never did leave night behind.
Crows are first on the scene,
start the conversation
with a series of hacking caws.
The corpse’s reply
says nothing of who it was,
only where it can be found. BEING SOULLESS
I’m just bones sometimes,
pointed or straightened,
supporting one another
like knee to chin,
or grinding when they infringe
on foreign territory.
I’m a rib cage,
and wrists and ankles.
And a skull that my spine
does its best to keep vertical.
What else do you wish to know?
The soul? Open the page of
your anatomy book.
Show me where to look.
Oh I’m a pound of flesh I grant you.
Around the waist especially.
And I’m this wrap of facile skin,
soft and pliable, liable to sever
when a sharp object is applied.
Apparently, you want me to be more
than just this skeleton with stuff applied.
But you’ve caught me at the wrong moment.
This is my men’s store dummy phase.
I’m hanging out, just being my body:
intestines, liver, kidney, even heart,
but the one that pumps out blood
not poetry.
Show me that book of yours again.
Go to the section on diseases,
the one on injuries.
That’s what I risk by being who I am.
But they’re the only risks.
I think you’ll find
there’s no mention of you in there.