My Bag of Bones

I’m told I do a decent job
shaking my bag of bones
and reading what spills
onto my spirit table as if
the runes make sense
and import, as if I possess
some sort of inherent insight
into love and its stygian depths,
as if I know what I’m seeing,
and people say they sit up
and listen as I clear my throat
and make my dramatic passes
over these artful messes with hands
steadied with generous swigs
of the snake oil I whip up nightly
in my claw-footed bathtub
for courage and glib fortitude
and dole out the codswallop
that I claim is cosmic knowledge
of the contortions of the heart,
but this is my secret, that I know
wagonloads of sheer nothing,
that love confuses me, that desire
gives me fever and night-sweats,
that I never know how much I have
or how much will ever be enough
and that I haven’t the foggiest
about what one does with it,
but I keep shaking my bag of bones
in the endless relentless hope
that one day I’ll get it, that all
will be suddenly revealed to me
and I will at long last stop lying
and speak plainly and truthfully
of what I finally know of love.


2 Comments Add yours

  1. Robin Dalton says:

    Reblogged this on a lingering rose and commented:
    I have admired this writer’s work for several years now. He is published in a number of places but he has decided to grace us at last with a new blog of some of his writing. Give him a read. I don’t have a favourite but I quite like this one.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Why, thank you. High praise indeed.

      Liked by 1 person

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