Some days I awake to the sound of my breath and remember
So vivid a vision—one year’s past—of a boy with a bottle
Of rum hum drumming against a summer sky.
These are the leeks that would linger amongst the bones.
These are the bones, I told him, we are the bones.
With sleep in our speech we still whisper of when
We might come back again, finish what we began.
I would write your name across the water if
I could spin webs from my fingers. Would call
Your cross crow to the night, if I did not fear the reply
Ask what became of the body of that boy:
We are the bones, darling, these are the bones.