Arthur River

by GLENN MCPHERSON

When bones
Wash up

On rocks,
At the world’s edge

There are distances
We are

Without. Dolerite-
Headed thoughts

Have stood here
So long, unuttered.

Fire does not move
The way wind

Moves ocean
Where a dancing

Girl collects
A long, cracked femur,

Glossed knuckle,
Slithers of a rib

And searches like a voodoo
Heart

Searches for clues
Expressing

How we got here
On these arts

And whether
There are enough parts

To make
Another person.