Are they people or ruins?
Does the skeleton
who shed gender
long ago care—bones
held together by light
and promise. Quiet,
an androgen walks by.
Sky, a kind of death
watching us—azure
as death is azure.
Sometimes. Nobody
is alarmed that the meaning
of life hasn’t been caught
and put in a zoo yet.
Stand, walk, or recline—
it’s all the same to
the skeleton who shops
at only the best ideas.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
