The Palace of Bones

Heaven

Heaven It is rare for the sun to come here. The shadow trims itself within the hat. The moon shifts in its ghost of light. The stone floor of the cathedral falls Through the earth. Nothing rises. Not the smell or the fire or the songs. Such a small part of yourself belongs to you here, Like a face in black water, separate From its wrinkles and its cumbersome voice. Our hands are like torches, they sizzle And tear and dig at the surface of the earth Beneath the trees, beneath the air, But never through the heart, to the other side. The ones who once knew you carry you In their pockets among the pennies and broken bones So far from their own dreams, it is dangerous to love them. With history dusted and shiny behind the glass, Things still happen as they happened. The horses died after the men, and without hands. The children of the dead lived without dreams— Actors that can never exist again 26 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. Without becoming terrible, Without the names That once belonged to someone else. Children here are never born, But they die and die. We shove them underneath the rocks, In the gutters, into the black, to make it easier For them to be stolen. They are not beautiful anymore. Do we think their bones are too heavy for the angels? What little reason they leave us with. The angels hide. They taste us. When we have nothing to say, It is because we are tasting them, That sweet and delicious silence, transparent, pure. Don’t ever let me lose you again. I think of the thieves, the stars, Those uncertain swells of space that keep us Reminded how far from ourselves we are, And how history should connect each star Like the bones connect the wrist to the fingers, Strong and certain, forward. Why do we always blame the dead? I cannot say no to the clocks, Though they are made so 27 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. Solid and round and permanent. They do lie. They do keep us wrong. The dead never rest. There is never peace. We love the space love doesn’t give us. Each house has its own light, its own time, Its own clock. And the dogs drag themselves here, As if this place is no different from any other. A dog will answer to most any name If you have the nerve to touch it. Good morning, angels. Leave us something familiar. How I want to touch you, whoever you are, No matter what you’ve done. No matter how imperfect. I won’t pretend you are invisible. I won’t erase you. I live. I shouldn’t complain. I live And nothing around me crumbles. 28 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...