The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Anthony Opal


Whatever it is that stencils the night wind,
I refuse to believe it. Or should I say
that I just doubt it all very strongly.
I mean, look at the bird's bones picked clean
by the other birds! I mean, Lord, literally.
Their forms are ghostly—and without ghosts!  
Ok, Ok, Ok, the wind mumbles
as it slips through the delicate skeletons,
strum-humming through the precise ribcages.
But I suppose I'm just talking about
my own bones. Either way, what's important
is that something is moving through something
else, and then away, onto the next thing—
(Like this last line, hollow, as for movement.)

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