Roz Kaveney (rozk) wrote,
Roz Kaveney


You turn the winter soil. Some months ago
Hawks roosted on the trees. You find a skull,
another, pelvis, thigh. White bones are dull
with mould and soil, but wash them. They will glow

almost translucent, like a shattered pearl.
Clean carefully with spirit. Let them dry.
Careful lest hungry bugs that occupy
Skull's dark recess creep out infest unfurl

a wave across your desk. And then bring paint
gold leaf a chain repurpose what was dead
as art by decoration. In your head
old pain is turned to verse. Or, so no taint

of death remains, furnace, poured wax – these may
turn shape to bronze, burn those dead bones away.
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