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.